


Freedom To Be Me

by Still_beating_heart



Series: Freedom To Be Me [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 3x6 divergence, Ben Wa Balls, Gallavich and all that implies, Homeless Mickey, Homophobic Language, I'll fucking show you, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Language, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of sex trafficking, Multiple Endings, Pay Attention To Chapter Warnings, Smut of course because it's Ian and Mickey, Teenagers and smut, Violence, West Point Ian, What's in it for you Ian?, the first one is the path of least resistance, the whore fights back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: What happens when the whore doesn't want to fuck the faggot out of the faggot?--------If it means her life.  So be it.  America.  The land of choices.  Freedom to be me.  Freedom to be a whore with morals.  Freedom to be you.  Freedom to be a gay boy with an orange love and a hateful father.--------





	1. Freedom To Be Me

Freedom To Be Me

 

Svetlana stands by the sink. Watching the water soak into the washrag in her cold hands. Her hands are always cold. There’s not a thing in the world that can warm them. The water is steaming. The rag is soaked and still she stands watching. 

She was twelve when her father sent her to St Petersburg. They call it sex tourism. Child sex tourism. As though that makes it sound nice. It’s okay to rape a child if it’s tourism. Fucking an unwilling twelve year old, it was just part of the travel bundle. 

The first chance she got, she ran. On the streets was no better. 

Shipped overseas on a shipping container. Seasick in the darkness. Bodies crashing and grinding together as cattle in the close quarters and a storm at sea. Vomit, shit, and piss making the floors slick as the ship crested wave after wave, she could hear it crashing. The anger of the ocean. Crashing on the decks. Girls were crying. Holding themselves through the shakes. 

But Svetlana sat still. Silent. Stomach flip-flopping, mouth dry. Silent. Still. Waiting. This is not where she would die. She knew that as clearly as she knew her place in this world. From the time she was just a girl, ‘Svetlana, you find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You make babies. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You do motherly duties.’

It was the seed planted in her head by her mother. Her mother who cooked. Cleaned. Did wifely duties so loudly even in the small, cold flat in the middle of a Russian winter. She could hear her father, every night, grunting and panting through the thin walls of their two bedroom apartment. Paper thin walls. And her mother’s matched moans that to a small child sounded more like they were wrestling or fighting. Maybe mother was being murdered. But there she was every morning, cooking, cleaning. Doing motherly duties. With a pinched smile on her narrow lips. In the small orderly kitchen, only enough room for father’s drinking buddies to play their cards at the kitchen table and get rowdy drunk on vodka. Ivan was always too drunk to leave and the children’s room was where the drunk guests would spend the night. 

Ivan was allowed to sleep on a blanket on the floor. It was so. It was always so. Until Svetlana was eleven and woke to the feel of his penis on her thighs. His rancid drunken breath on her neck, his hands on her budding breasts. 

Soon after it was St Petersburg for her. A distraction to men. Always a distraction to men. 

Sasha was the first face she saw exiting the container in the port of Chicago. Svetlana was the last out. Sitting in the back corner as the other girls, shivering and hurrying to the warmth and fresh air exited into their life of more misery and more penises always trying to get in where they don’t belong. Waiting to explode like sticky volcanoes, ugly fucking skin-sticks. 

And here she is, eight years after being sent to St Petersburg to become a stop on the child sex tour, here she is standing in the bathroom wiping sticky volcano spew off her inner thigh. 

A heavy fist lands not once, not twice, but three times on the door, “you have customer,” Anatoly’s deep resonant voice.

It’s early. Much too early for a third costumer.

Looking at her face in the mirror she sees tired. And resigned. She sees a woman who wanted America the land of opportunities. Not America the land of unwelcome penises, closed fists to the gut, open-hands across the face, and small minds. Not America the land of hand jobs, fingers in the ass, penises in the mouth, penises in the pussy. Not America the ugly. She wanted America the beautiful. America the choice. 

But she never had a choice. Cook. Clean. Do wifely duties. Here, there, it doesn’t matter. They’re both cold, windy. Alone. 

So she replaces the paint on her lips with a fresh layer. Straightens her purple dress over her body. Her body that will be used-up in no time. An old whore with nowhere to go. ‘Svetlana, you find man’. Always, always echoing in her head. The seed has become the plant, has become the flower, has gone to seed and blown away on the cold winter Chicago wind. 

Anatoly is standing by the door with the keys in his hand. 

She scoffs at him. A house call. This early in the day. Breezing past him with the clicking of her heals on the tiled floor of the massage parlor. Into the late summer air of a city of possibilities. Possibilities on every corner. If you’re willing to sell your flesh, that is.

He opens the door for her. She steps into the black SUV. Through the tinted windows she watches as the neighborhood goes from bad to worse. 

“Where?” she finally wonders as the streets become familiar from last week. 

“Milkovich,” he responds as he turns the last corner. 

She swallows her objections. Objecting a week ago only got her backhanded across the cheek. So instead she pats her dress where she’s sewn the hidden pockets. A switchblade in one and a pepper spray bullet in the other. He bit her breast her last week. He’s not going to get a chance this time. 

The unnecessarily large vehicle comes to a halt at the curb. Anatoly is too chicken shit to come in. Like a he’s supposed to. Come in and stand outside the bedroom door. To make sure, to know the client is following Sasha’s rules. But Anatoly is a pussy. He’s seen the collections of guns in this house. And the multitude of young dirty, loud-mouthed men that seem to crawl out of the woodwork when there’s a whore on the premises. Wanting a turn, always wanting a turn. All of them. 

All but the one. The one with the dark hair and soulful eyes. Always choosing the right moment to slip through the door undetected by the others before his turn. Svetlana is just a rancid whore as far as he is concerned. 

Anatoly’s hand appears in front of her face, palm out, waiting, “blade,” he orders without turning to make eye contact.

She hesitates. This man has no idea. No idea what it’s like to be ridden and groped, slapped, poked, prodded, hair pulled, bitten. 

His fingers flourish impatiently in front of her face. She sighs, pressing the blade into his palm. Fingers moving again, “spray too Svetlana.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now,” his head turns, leveling her with an icy gaze. 

Knowing too well what his fist feels like in her stomach, what his backhand feels like on her jaw, what his disgusting skin-stick feels like pounding into her from behind as he pushes her face down against the table. She hands it over reluctantly. Sucking on the insides of her cheeks quickly, puckering her lips and letting lose a dart of spit into his hand as she pushes the door open and throws herself onto the curb. Her middle finger in the air as the tires squeal away from the curb. 

Straightening her dress. He’ll be back in an hour. One hour. Always. 

Piece of shit. She clears her throat, from as far down as she possibly can, far enough to bring forth some of the sticky residue from her last client, rolling it around on her tongue and spitting on the hot pavement where the oil stain was left behind by that gas-guzzling flashy piece of steel, plastic, and rubber. 

‘You find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You have babies. You do motherly duties.’

This is your lot in life. 

Running her fingers through her teased brown hair, feeling the heat of the mid-morning summer sun on her bare shoulders. Smelling the garbage lined streets, listening to the screeching and clanging of the L. 

Her eyes close for just a moment. Just one moment to gather her nerve. Anatoly is gone. What is to stop her from walking away? What is to stop her from getting on the train and never looking back? A whore in Chicago, a whore in LA, a whore in Russia. What’s the difference? Maybe she gets on a train and doesn’t get off until she’s on the West Coast where it’s always sunny and the wind is always warm. Maybe she gets work as a nanny for a rich couple. Maybe they provide room and board. And she cooks. She cleans. She does motherly duties. But never wifely duties. 

Her feet start to turn. A step towards the L. What’s to stop her from climbing up there and throwing herself on the tracks? A second step and the sound of a door opening. A face appearing. All rough and ragged and hard weather. Stony and angry. Always an expression like the world has wronged him. Like all the faggots and blacks, the jews and muslims, the women and liberals; they’re all out to get him. They’re all out to personally attack him, destroy him. Tear down his walls and steal his guns, force him to pay taxes and treat his children like human beings. Every single one of them on the attack, wanting to force their way of life on poor white man. White, straight, christian man who was just born the right way. And every one else was born wrong. 

Welcome to the land of choice. 

A handgun in his grip as he jerks his head to the side. A cigarette pinched between his lips. 

Fuck Anatoly. 

She enters the house. Fully expecting the whole horde of them. Drinking, swearing, smoking, and all shouting for attention. He with the loudest voice wins the first round with the whore. Celebrating their latest scam. Or spending the drug money before it’s even counted. 

But they’re not here. It’s quiet. She hears the door close behind her and she looks to the living room. The couch. The chair. The boys are bloody. They’re just boys. They’re nearly naked. 

The orange one looks confused as his hands drop away from his face. The dark one looks amused, he knew this was coming. A half smile, knowing and resigned rolled into one. A look Svetlana is familiar with, a feeling she’s familiar with. 

“That one,” as he moves behind the couch. The trail of cigarette smoke following him. The gun tucked into his pants. 

She stands in front of the boy. He’s watching her eyes. He’s barely conscious but the pain is so raw and so heavy she cannot deny it. He knows. He knows what is about to happen. And that doesn’t make it okay. It never did. 

“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you kid,” he leans towards his son’s ear, his hands on the afghan behind his head. The cigarette like a threat between his fingers. How many times has he put one out on the boy’s pale flesh? If she looked at the soles of his feet, how many round scars would she find? 

He stands up straight, taking one step back and the cigarette rises, pausing midair while he appraises her hungrily, “ride him until he likes it.”

Burning white paper and chemicals with an orange tip floating across the air to his lips. She removes her dress. Looking at the boy. He is so young. And so afraid. It’s flashing in his eyes. His eyes that have never met hers before for longer than a passing glance. Now they’re locked on, as her dress rises over her head. Afghan orange, and brown, and white. Probably something his mother crocheted. Behind his head. His head that must be ringing with physical pain, racing with emotional pain. 

“And you’re goddamn gonna watch,” the cigarette jabbing into the air like punctuation towards carrot boy. 

Boy is queer. Boy with beautiful eyes is queer. And this is the land of choices. 

Freedom to be me. As she reaches for his underwear. The blood is distracting. Like mud dragged in on a boot tread across an otherwise pristine floor. 

Freedom to be you. As he helps her lower the shorts. He’s weak from the beating.

Queer boy fought back. Queer boy is sick of father kicking him around? 

As her knees meet the couch beside his hips his head raises, eyes landing on orange boy and his face twists. And Svetlana knows how this feels. An undesired body part coming near and touching your most private area. A body part you don’t want to feel breeching the surface of your skin. It makes you feel as though you’re being zapped. Like an electric shock when you’re little and you rub your stockinged feet along the carpet to build up the static before you reach out and touch your brother’s nose to jar him, with a laugh as you take off running. But no laughing this time. 

No. Nothing funny or childish and silly here. 

Queer boy fought back because father hit orange boy. As his blue eyes linger on the other boy, she sees it. He is the broken child cowering in the corner, only lashing out when the person he loves is in danger. Father can do whatever his cruel heart desires to his own children. But child will not stand by and watch as father harms lover. Child takes his stand and father hits. Again and again into his face with his heavy fist. Again and again until child is crushed down into couch cushions and bleeding, gasping for air. Again and the sickening sound of steel on bone. Lights out.

Lights barely back on when a Russian whore enters the room. 

Father is still behind the couch as her hand slides up his thigh. His eyes flicker to hers and it takes the breath from her lungs. 

Boy is queer and no amount of pussy is going to change that. Boy is queer and this is land of opportunity. Of choice. Of freedom. Burger King? McDonalds? What is the difference? 

The difference is a father with a gun. 

But this is a house full of weapons. This is a boy who is broken and bleeding and barely conscious. And no amount of pussy will interest his gay penis. Father doesn’t realize this as he watches. He’ll be coming around the edge of the couch soon to see. To see if gay penis is coming to attention for pussy. For pussy that is rubbing against it because that’s what she was called here for. Ride him until he likes it. What if he never likes it? What if he only like McDonalds with his orange hair and his big hands and his penis? What if he never likes Burger King with her layers and her folds and dark places that are musty and used up and she’s only twenty years old? Find a man. You find man Svetlana. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. 

A man with black hair and sky blue eyes that are misting over with pain so raw it moves like a saw blade through Svetlana’s core. While his gaze lingers on her face. If penis is going to respond he better start looking at orange boy. What if it doesn’t respond? Will they all be on their knees on the linoleum, hands bound at the wrists, taking turns getting a bullet to the back of the head? Dead bodies wrapped in tarps and buried at the Southshore docks? Or cut up and dropped in acid? Or weighted down and dumped in the river? 

A man who likes McDonalds. 

Her blade and her pepper spray may be gone. But Anatoly is stupid. And she is not. 

She looks beyond the boy who’s eyes are getting heavier by the second. On the verge of passing out. She looks at the old man who is watching her. Small man, small penis, small mind. Easy to control. The expression she wears like a mask taking her features. The expression she’s worn so easily since she was twelve years old back in St Petersburg with strange men with strange accents scanning over her like goods at a market place. The expression that says silently ‘take me, take me, I’m worth your money, take me, I want you, I need you’. 

Find man. Cook. Clean. Wifely duties.

Fuck you Mama. 

Eyes staying on father. Hand sliding across boy’s face, leaning into him. He’ll either give in to the pull of exhaustion and pain, or he’ll do something now. He’ll do something to take control, he’ll get one last burst of self-preservation and he’ll flip her over and fuck her until he can pretend she’s orange boy, or pretend he’s straight. Or whatever father wants. 

Her index and middle finger find the base of boy’s skull. Behind his ear, soft place where neck connects to jawline. Gentle pressure. If boy takes control this will all be over. Rubbing deeply and evenly into his tissue, feeling his hands falling away at his sides. Just a push, a little push back into unconsciousness, back into the safety and warmth of falling, darkness that is comfort overtaking his mind.

Her eyes remain on the father as she emits a low moan, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. He’s eyeing her, exactly the way she knew he would. Like she is not more than goods at the market. 

This house. It is full of weapons. 

There are two of them now. Orange boy looks stupid. But maybe not so stupid. Maybe strong, maybe just gym muscles. But orange boy grew up South Side, then he must have something resembling survival skills. Orange boy can see clearly from his view on the chair, if he’s watching, that his lover has slipped back away to a different plane of existence. He can see that his queer penis has not responded, he can see that she’s not even trying anymore. Just rocking and rubbing for the sake of show, for the sake of showing father. 

‘And you’re goddamn gonna watch,’ was what father said. Is orange boy watching? 

Her hand falls from pretty-eyed boy’s face to the couch. Weapon. There must be a weapon somewhere. Her left hand sliding through his hair, keeping his head level so father does not see he’s unconscious. 

He shifts, he’ll step around front now. He’ll see this show is false. She keeps the panic from her eyes. What will happen? He kills his own son in front of lover? Kills lover in front of whore? Kills whore for simply existing? 

Or she can maintain control. Her fingers slip through the blood starting to crust in boy’s hair, reaching out for father’s hand. Lifting it off the couch and sucking his fingers in her mouth. 

Right hand contacts a string of balls on couch. Kinky little rainbow boys.

Shit. No hammer? No screwdriver? No bat? Not even a hypodermic to stab in his eye? 

Poop-place-beads will have to work for distraction. She pulls them closer, sliding half under sleeping boy’s leg. She wants to look at orange boy, but turning her head away from father will tip him off. This has to happen quickly when it happens. Her left fingers are climbing his wrist as she sucks his fingers deeper into her mouth, drawing back only to lick and twirl her tongue. 

Stupid man. Stupid ugly man. With stupid ugly skin-stick. And his stupid ugly skin-stick is guiding his useless brain as she guides his hand to her breast. Smiling coyly at him as she licks her lips, sliding her fingers through her hair, snagging her hoop earring. Hoop earring with spring loaded blade. Small blade. More like needle. But enough to put in that dark bullseye of his pupil. 

The cancer stick in his left hand, her breast in his right. The gun in his pants. The blade in her left. Deep breath, easing up on her knees to get closer to father. Angry little prick of a man. Butt-beads in her right.

The left hand jabs, the right hand swings. Eyeball stab and a good smack to the temple with queer son’s sex toy. 

“What the fuck?” he sputters, hand rising for his eye. Not gaining his bearings soon enough to reach for the gun before she launches off the couch. Crashing into him as she struggles for grasp of the pistol. This piece of shit has no problem hitting woman. This she knows. And this she feels. But gun is in her hand, even as his fist is connecting with her ribs. 

She does not want to shoot. Too much attention, the sound of gunfire. Bearing down on her shoulders with all her weight into his chest on the floor. Even as her ribs are cracking with the hard blow of his angry fist. But she has the gun. It’s in her hand and she’s gripping with her right hand at his throat. Not enough to block his air, but enough to make the panic rise in his chest, enough to make his left hand grip her wrist as she jerks the gun out of his pants. Sitting up now, gaining the angle to slam the gun down on his face before he can block.

Fuck being skinny young woman. Not enough weight behind the swing to knock him unconscious. Only enough to stagger him. Caught off guard but not broken. 

Where is carrot boy? Useless McDonald clown. 

She reels back and swings again, but this time his left hand has grabbed hold of her hair. Jerking her head to the side, throwing her off balance. The connection is strong but not strong enough and his right hand is gripping her fingers over the barrel of the handgun. Twisting her wrist. She must let go, or her wrist will snap. 

His hands are on the grip, his finger is on the trigger. This is where she dies. Not in that shipping container. Not on the streets of St Petersburg. Not on the streets of Chicago. But in the home of a child abusing, sexist, homophobic piece of shit. 

But Svetlana has been the raped enough. She will not become the rapist. If it means her life. So be it. America. The land of choices. Freedom to be me. Freedom to be a whore with morals. Freedom to be you. Freedom to be a gay boy with an orange love and a hateful father. 

Maybe this is enough. Maybe she is dead whore with bullet in her head. Rolled in a tarp and thrown in the river. And maybe father needs son’s help disposing of body. So maybe son doesn’t get raped today. And maybe by the time they’ve disposed of the body they’ve come to understanding. Father will not go to prison because son helped hide crime. Son will not be fucked straight by a whore. At least not today. 

And maybe this is enough. Maybe this is more than cook. Clean. Do wifely duties. 

Suddenly a rush of movement and a jolt into her shoulder sends her spilling over to the side. A gunshot sounds and the sickening smack of wood on flesh and bone. It happens again. Or it echoes in her head. She’s unsure. Liquid splattering on her face as she turns. The sound of skull shattering. Her eyes close but she hears herself shout, “enough.”

Carrot boy kills father? Little pretty-eyed queer never forgive him. Does not matter what father does to son, son still loves.

“Enough!”

She hasn’t told her body to move but it does. It acts like a shield between orange boy and father bleeding on floor, “enough!”

There’s a detached glow in his eyes but it recedes when he focuses on her face, the bat halts on his backswing. The momentum enough to bounce off his shoulders while the adrenaline fueled self and lover defense starts to recede with each blink. 

Her left shoulder feels strange, her ribs are aching, and her head is spinning. What now? The same question is painted across the green irises of the orange boy looking down at her. What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd I do Mary?
> 
> The bad part of writing this fic was that I had to rewatch the scene. I wonder how many times I'd have to watch it before it would stop making me sick to my stomach. There are moments when you pause on Noel's face that are so fucking heartbreaking - I'm pretty sure my heart is not still beating. 
> 
> The other scene I rewatched to get some of Svetlana's character to show was the choice (McDonalds or Burger King) speech. I hope enough of her bled through the writing to make it believable. She's hard to capture on paper. I think that speech was so heartbreaking too, she's a sex worker and she hates penis. That's what made me look a little further into a believable yet tragic background for her. 
> 
> I had my mixed feelings about Svetlana. I hated what they did to her character in later seasons. But there were moments when I truly appreciated her grit. We saw her so many times threaten people and not much backing it up. So this was a little backbone to her nature.
> 
> As soon as I typed in 'fuck you Mama', I got a little giddy. I had the urges to go full girl power and have her choke him dead on the floor. But I figured I should at least have Ian do something other than sit there and stare.
> 
> This was seriously fun to write! I hope you enjoyed reading it!


	2. Why Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I know what I'm doing with this. There are at least a hundred ways this could go from here. So I think I am going to do multiple endings. This is ending number 1. I'll probably go from path of least resistance to increasingly complicated plot lines. So this one will probably be the most satisfying for a lot of people.
> 
> Warning: Terry's learned hatred ahead. I apologize for the slurs.

Why Me?

 

Terry Milkovich is a deadbeat dad. Terry Milkovich is worse than a deadbeat dad. Terry Milkovich is an abusive, misogynistic, racist, homophobic, psychotic piece of shit. 

His great-grandparents were among the first wave of Ukrainians to flee to the US. Being packed in a ship and sent forth to work in the foundries in Chicago. Fleeing a divided empire without any sense of self. Eager to assimilate to a culture that was a melting pot of immigrants in industries that were dangerous, loud, unrestricted. His great-grandfather lost his life in a factory. His great-grandmother raised their five children on the sweat of her brow. She never spared the rod. 

His grandfather fought in World War I. Sent from the land of immigrants to fight on their parents home turf. Fight, bleed, fight, bleed, watch brothers die, repeat. He turned to the bottle and religion. Religion that was fire and brimstone. Faggots and blacks would be the downfall of our society. Women had a specific place in this world. Thou shalt fear all who are different. 

What Terry’s father learned from his father was hate. Hate of all things different. Hatred for the black man trying to take white man’s jobs and women. Hate of women trying to make a place for themselves in the country during World War II with their Rosie the Riveter and their baseball leagues while their men were off fighting and dying and bleeding and watching their brother’s die in a war that no one else could understand. And hatred for the faggots and their blatant sinful nature. 

When Terry was in school he watched the hippies and their love, protesting the Vietnam war and it’s aftermath. He watched those disgraceful women burning their bras and claiming independence. He watched the blacks take over the neighborhood. He watched the fags spreading their AIDS. And he watched his father beat a nigger faggot to death in the alley beside their house. And he watched as his father’s friends cheered for him and patted his back for ridding the world of another demon. 

He was sixteen when his father was locked up for life. By then his mother had a heroin habit, she was nothing more than a shadow of a human on an old musty sofa. Until he was seventeen and he found her cold and dead with the needle still in her flesh. Weak bitch that she was. 

“What now?” 

His hearing is buzzing. Words fading in and out, sounds like rushing water in his head. Images flashing across his closed eyelids. Every time his father smacked him. Every time his mother paddled him with a wooden spoon. Every time his brother was broken and bloody for getting too close to his male friend. Every time his father’s fist was cracking his jaw and bruising his ribs for making too much noise in the house, or making a mess. 

And Nadiya. Her smile. The only time in Terry’s life he felt he was worth something. He felt he was more than just a set of bloody knuckles and a bruised face. Nadiya with her ice-blue eyes and her thin-lipped smile. Nadiya who’s face he left bloodied that night she came home admitting she had cheated on him. Nadiya who was pregnant and bare foot in the kitchen with white powder dusting the end of her nose. Nadiya who sang Ukrainian lullabies to five children. Only two of which Terry was certain were his. 

And every time he beat her, every time he put her in her place, every time he broke her nose and blackened her eyes; it hurt. It hurt in his very core. But it had to be done.

And when the children broke the rules, when they were loud and needy, when they spilled milk and wasted food, when they didn’t clean their rooms and asked for toys, when they ripped their jeans and wanted to invite a friend over; they needed to be put in their place. It hurt. But it had to be done. Just like Terry was put in his place. And his father was put in his place. And his grandfather was put in his place.

Know your place in this world and never question it. 

“Put body in tarp. Dump in river.”

“No, we need to call the cops.”

“Is your problem.”

“Where are you going?”

Of Nadiya’s five children, there were two that would never stay in their place. He could put them there a million times, but they’d never stay there for long. 

“Wait, what am I supposed to say? I can’t just call the cops over and have no witnesses.”

“Let go. Or I bash your brains in with hammer.”

“You can’t just leave. I’m not the only one who…”

“Is your problem.”

Always ‘why’. Always that ‘why Dad’ in those ice-blue eyes. Every single time. Every single time he’d backhand, and closed-fist, and open-palm across that face. Always ‘why Dad’ all over the surface of those eyes. And Terry could never fucking answer that question.

The door slams shut. Terry’s eyes open. Blurry vision. Head spinning. Whoever hit him, hit him a good one. Fuck, it’s been a long time since he’s had a head-ripper this good. Fuckin’ ass-jockey has a strong swing. 

————

He wakes in the dark of the night when his brother’s body weight lands on the mattress beside him. His shadow leans towards him, cracked swollen lips against his forehead, “I’m sorry Theo,” the nickname only Bobby calls him, “I can’t stay here any longer. I just can’t. I can’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not. And I know,” his breath catches in his throat, “I know you’ll end up taking the hits now. I know that. I hope someday you can understand. I’m so sorry Theo. I’m so sorry. If I stay here I’ll die. But you’re stronger than me. You are. You can take it. And I know you can protect the rest of them. I know you can.”

————

His hand rises to gingerly touch the side of his head. Fingertips coming into focus and blurring again into nothing more than red fresh blood off the side of his head. He can feel it now dripping through his hair. 

He can hear movement. Barely audible movement and whispers, “Mickey can you hear me? I need you to wake up now,” his voice is shaky and he sounds like a fucking kid, “I need you to get up and we need to go. We need to go,” it breaks off, “Mickey? Please?”

The sound of steel crushing bone, the image of his son’s face breaking through the fog of his pounding skull. His son. That’s his son. That’s Terry’s son. That’s Nadiya’s son. That’s his son, his faggot son who’s spirit just won’t fucking break. No matter what Terry does to him. Just like his fucking mother. 

Terry drags himself to seated with a groan. The voice gets more urgent, “Mickey. Mickey, come on.”

What has he done? What has he done to his boy? What has he done to his son? 

He staggers, using the couch to keep himself on his feet. The carrot-topped faggot’s eyes are wide and he’s caught in the instinctual flight or fight argument. His eyes dart from Terry’s face to where he left the baseball bat on the couch. On the couch next to the barely breathing body of Terry’s son. 

He reaches for it, but Terry’s closer. His hand on the bat and his eyes on the boy. He looks terrified, but there’s a part of him that won’t leave. He can’t get himself to leave Mickey here. Here, where he’s afraid Terry will beat him to death. 

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he hears himself tell the kid, “you should have run.”

His eyes dart to the focal point that Terry knew they’d find. His bleeding son. His unspoken, ‘no, I won’t leave him’. 

Exhaustion, soreness, and heavy pain lurching through Terry’s body making it hard to communicate, hard to think, hard to decide what the fuck he’s going to do now. The whore is gone. She was alive when she left. And her escort hasn’t broken down the door yet. Anatoly was always a piece of shit, too afraid to do his job. Never liked the feel of busted knuckles. Made it easy to hit the bitches and send them back out to him with bloody noses and bruised throats. Knowing he’d not protect them if Terry answered the door with his gun tucked in his belt. Intimidation, it’s an easy game to win once it’s learned how to play. And Terry’s been playing that game for far too fucking long.

He takes the steps around the couch. The ginger kid is backing up, further into the room, away from the door, cornering himself or maybe thinking he can leap the couch and run out the back door. But his eyes keep darting to the unconscious mass on the couch. 

And now Terry’s do too. Taking in the damage on his face, the angry red marks on his ribs that are a perfect match to Terry’s knuckles. And how many times? How many times have his knuckles been embedded in that flesh? How many bones has he cracked, shattered, busted with his anger and his hatred? Was it ever the kid’s fault? Was it his fault he was born with Nadiya’s eyes and her incessant ‘why’ written all over that iced over lake? Why me Dad? Without ever saying it.

For the first time since Terry watched Bobby’s broad shoulders disappearing through the bedroom window into the darkness of the night, for the first time since he was a kid being left behind, for the first time in so fucking long he didn’t know he was capable anymore; tears rise. Bringing with them a burning, aching, gut-wrenching swell of emotions that Terry didn’t know existed as he reaches out and touches his son’s face. 

His was the only birth Terry was there for. And it was on accident. He had stumbled in the door from the Alibi, a hot August night. Nadiya was leaning chest down against the kitchen table, fluids all over the floor and covering her bare feet. She turned her head and simply told him, ‘catch’. He was so ugly, all red and covered in slime. He was so loud screaming to Heaven that he had arrived and he was here to fuck shit up. He only held him for a moment or two before the old Ukrainian lady from down the street was barging in the door and taking control of the situation. 

Was that the last time? Was that the only time? The only time Terry had ever touched this boy, other than to hurt him? 

His hand is shaking and his vision is blurring, reaching behind his son’s head for the afghan. The orange, brown, and white that he remembers being in the crib. It was in the crib that night as he tore Nadiya out of the room, the room where this boy was sound asleep, as he jerked her out of the room by her arm. As he took her by the back of the head, grinding her face into the kitchen table that was still a mess of dirty dishes and half-eaten dinners growing cold on the counter. Why didn’t she clean it up? Why didn’t she clean it up? The baby was crying. The baby was crying. The baby was always crying. 

He was always crying. 

He watches his hands, bruised swollen knuckles from crashing into this boy’s face. He’s just a boy. What has he done to this boy? Echoing in the rushing of fear, anger, regret in his mind; what has he done to this boy? 

He watches his hands gently now. Working the blanket off the back of the couch. The couch where his hands slid up his daughter’s thigh for the first time. His stomach twists into his throat as he pulls the hand-made blanket down, wrapping it around his son’s shoulders and patting it down gently on his chest. 

He watches his fingers slide through his boy’s hair. Feels his face moving forward and down. His lips meeting the boy’s forehead, his voice exiting, shaking and hitching, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

His eyes meet the carrot-top still standing there like a deer in the headlights. Frozen in place. He feels himself nod. And he feels himself turn and walk out the door. 

He doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t stop walking with the gun tucked into his belt. With his hand resting cooly on the grip. He doesn’t stop walking until it’s growing dark out. It’s growing dark and he’s stopped at the docks. He’s come to rest in an old, unused shipping port. Empty crates and empty promises like shadows of his failures in the dark of the summer night. 

He feels the pavement under his knees as he kneels. He sees the distant faded glow of a lone star on a blanket of sky. He feels the barrel of the gun against his throbbing temple. He feels the lone streak of a salty tear on his cheek. And he feels himself pull the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've killed Terry I think four times now. And this one I truly was going to give him a chance, have the epiphany while he's knocked senseless, and atone for his ways. But then I thought of Mandy and thought - nope, you still deserve to die fucker. I might feel mildly bad for killing him this time. Only mildly. 
> 
> So this would leave the question of where do his minor children go now? And what the hell does Ian tell Mickey? And how does Mickey respond?


	3. Fuck You Lookin' At?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Ian describe what happened while Mickey was unconscious?

Fuck You Lookin’ At?

 

“Let me get this straight,” his head falls back against the couch again, he hasn’t moved yet. Which is concerning to say the least, “so this whore beats the shit out of my dad. And my dad takes off?”

“Well yeah. After he put the blanket around your shoulders and apologized.”

“You expect me to believe that shit?” he flinches when his eyebrows shoot up.

“Could I make that up?”

Silence as he gnaws on his lower lip for a moment. Shit, he’s going to see it. He’s going to see that Ian left out a certain part about a baseball bat connecting with the side of Terry’s face. Shit, “come on, we gotta get to work.”

“I ain’t workin’ today. Fuck that.”

“You calling in sick?”

“I ain’t sick.”

“Well, I mean,” motioning towards his face. He had time to clean himself up, clean up the floor, and still Mickey hadn’t moved. He was starting to wonder what the hell the whore did to him when he finally grunted and his hand rose to his face to rub his eyes, only to pull back with a sharp pang of what he would say was surprise if Ian asked him. But it was pain. 

“This?” pointing at the bruised broken skin that looks fucking horrible and is making Ian cringe every time he looks at it, “you think this is gonna stop me?”

“No,” honestly, “then get dressed and let’s go. We’re already late. Linda’s going to chew our asses, but if I don’t go then I won’t have my papers for the group home. If you don’t go you’ll probably get fired and be breaking probation, right?”

There’s kind of a half nod before his eyes fill and drop to his lap. Thumb rising to slide the length of his nose, lingering on the tip. 

Shit. How does he say any of the shit he wants to say? Especially to a guy like Mickey. Sure, there was no penetration, but the intent was still there. It was still there from his father. His father who is supposed to love and protect him. Not beat him, and attempt to rape him. 

Fuck him. Fuck Terry. What he’s done to Mandy. 

He sits down heavily beside Mickey for a moment. Avoiding eye contact, avoiding touching him. Sure, the act wasn’t committed but there was still contact. Unwanted contact. He feels fucking violated. And he should, “why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll run down to the store, I’ll let Linda know something came up and you’ll be there in thirty?”

His lower lip gets sucked into his mouth, bit down hard on and his head turns away from Ian, “sure.”

The stubborn prick isn’t going to let Ian help him even if he stays. So what the fuck’s the point of staying? He has to get his work papers signed. Maybe he’ll wait until Linda leaves, he’ll close the store and just come back here. Yeah, he’ll do that. He’ll let Mickey get up, get cleaned up, get dressed in privacy. He’d be pissed if Ian saw him looking helpless or weak, or emotional, or any of the things he probably is right now. Or should be right now. Or… he sees his own hand come down on Mickey’s thigh. He didn’t give it permission to do that, but it’s there. And now it’s squeezing. 

Mickey keeps his head turned. Shit, he’s got to have a pounding headache by now. Maybe some double vision. Nausea. Dizziness. All the things that come with taking a hit like that to the face. Doesn’t take much of a hit for a concussion, but that was a hit. 

He doesn’t push Ian’s hand away. Which surprises the fuck out of Ian. Maybe he hasn’t noticed it there yet. 

Or maybe he has. U-UP landing on top of Ian’s fingers for a moment. A brief squeeze before he lifts Ian’s hand off his leg and sets it on the couch between them. It was there. And that was all he could handle. Maybe that’s okay. 

“Did I tell you about the part where she smacked him in the head with your rosary?”

“Fuck off Gallagher,” hand rising to his nose again. 

Ian’s eyes trail the part of his face he can see. Fuck it hurts. It hurts in his own body to look at that damage. His gaze stops on the back of his neck. Where his neck becomes his shoulder. That soft muscle group that’s always tensed into a solid rock when they’re fucking and he’s gripping whatever his chosen item to grip is. Shelf in the store, dugout fencing, the couch this morning. And last night. Whatever he can get his hands on. What would happen if they fucked in a bed? They were in his room the first time, but he was face down on the mattress, hanging on to the edge of it. What would happen if he let Ian fuck him face to face, on a bed?

You horny fuck, he almost got raped and you’re already thinking about fucking him? Come on Ian.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?”

The bite is back. The feeling like his words are a physical jab to Ian’s chest. But he smiles anyway, leaning in quickly. Knowing it’ll get him shoved, hurrying before he can do it. Lips on bare skin. Warm, bare, freckled skin. He almost gets away with it. Almost makes it to his feet before Mickey shoves him, “get the fuck to work then tough guy.”

“See you in thirty,” his untrustworthy hand clamps down on Mickey’s thigh once more as he walks past him. Out of the corner of his eye he’s certain he sees a half-smile on that gorgeous face. 

He almost feels okay about this. Fuck, he almost feels good. A lie of omission isn’t really a lie, right? It was for Mickey’s own good, but Mickey would never see it that way. All he would see is that his fag of a boyfriend hit his dad with a baseball bat after a woman beat him into near submission and then he abandoned them. Again. Only this time it wasn’t for a job or a woman or prison. This time it was because he found out his son is queer. 

Fuck, he lets that settle. Terry fucking Milkovich got his ass handed to him by a woman and faggot. Karma is a bitch indeed. 

He’s nearly whistling to himself by the time he gets to the Kash N Grab. But then the sickening realization of Terry not being dead, Terry having crawled out of the house with his tail between his legs when the feeling of the woman’s pistol whipping and the contact of the bat were still fresh on his skin, in his tissues, in his mind. But what happens when that feeling wears off? Who will he take it out on?

Mickey.

And Mickey is still sitting on the couch at home. Alone. 

Fuck Ian. What’d you do? 

His hand is already on the door. Linda’s voice is already filtering into his consciousness. His own voice is already responding, apologizing. Making up some fucking lie about why his face looks the way it does. And why when Mickey gets here in a half hour, he’ll look like shit too. And is she buying it? Is she actually believing whatever the fuck he’s saying? And since when did Ian become a good liar? What the fuck? 

Fuck. It’s Southside. Anything is possible. 

————

Thirty-one minutes. Fuck it’s been thirty-two minutes. Fuck. 

Fuck. Linda, fuck her. Why is she still standing here? 

She’s watching the clock. She’s waiting, she’s got that look in her eye. Like she’s ready to chew someone’s ass and it doesn’t fucking matter who’s it is, but Mickey’s is nice and meaty and perfect for chewing on and he needs to be put in his place. 

Shit. Thirty-three and Ian stands up. And Linda glares at him. And he sits back down behind the register. Craning his head out the window. Down the street. Where the fuck is Mickey? Did Terry come back already? Was he just waiting outside anyway, waiting until Mickey was alone? Go back in there and kill his faggot son. Who’ll miss him anyway? Just some other faggot and maybe his siblings. Probably not even his siblings. 

Fuck. His breath catches in his throat and panic blurs his vision as he feels himself getting to his feet again. Walking out from behind the counter.

“You leave this store, don’t bother coming back,” Linda tells him firmly.

“I…”

The bell over the door jingles. Ian’s sigh of relief is audible. Linda’s sharp inhale of shock is audible. Ian must not have explained Mickey’s face properly. Or maybe it looks worse already. Maybe it… his hand is rising. 

What the fuck is it doing? It’s reaching out for Mickey, who is staring at Linda with that silent dare in his eyes. Now it’s fucking making contact with his chin. The touch startles him, eyes darting Ian’s way as he flinches himself a step backwards and swats his hand out of the air. 

Silence hangs around them for a split second before Linda is scoffing, grabbing Mickey’s wrist and dragging him behind her in the most motherly way Mickey has probably ever experienced from anyone since his own mother died a decade ago. He’s too shocked to fight it, following her without protest to the freezer. A bag of peas, a towel from her smock, leading him to the stool behind the register. She tilts his head back, examining the wound in the light for a moment before very gently placing the frozen food item on his face. 

He flinches. And if anyone asked, he’d say it was just from the cold on such a hot day in a store that is hot as balls because the fucking air conditioner is never on since Linda started cracking down on every single penny spent on keeping this place running. Who needs air conditioning? Not a bunch of Southside degenerates that come in here only for booze and the occasional gallon of milk. 

Just a few days ago Ian would have said the strangest thing he’s ever seen was his sister digging up their backyard for the body of their aunt. But now, now if anyone asked him, it’d be this. It would be Linda standing over Mickey with a bag of frozen peas, holding it delicately to his face and telling him as gently as someone like Linda can muster, “you sit. You don’t move until your shift is over. You move, you’re fired, hear me?”

His mouth opens, more than likely to say something smart-ass, but she cuts him off, “good. You heard me,” lifting his hand to replace hers on the freezer bag. Her eyes meet Ian’s as she marches around the counter, “I’ll be back by six. I know I don’t have to remind you to do your job while you’re here,” her eyes narrow as she backs out the door onto the street.

Ian’s nod is maybe a little too eager, but he has no idea what to say. Maybe a simple ‘thank you’ would do, but maybe it wouldn’t. 

Say something Ian. Just say something. Anything.

His eyes catch on Mickey’s hand. The left one that’s resting on the counter. The one that was clamped down so hard on Ian’s shoulder last night that is fucking hurt. The one that didn’t shove him away when he dipped into his lips. It landed on his shoulder. And it fucking stayed there as his lips parted and Ian’s whole fucking world spun out of control. 

It didn’t last long. Before Mickey was turning around and taking down his pants. Why the fuck couldn’t Ian do that for him? Why wasn’t Ian allowed to undress him? 

He feels himself move. Moving before Mickey can accuse him of staring. Moving to the storage room. He’ll restock the chips. That’s what he’ll do. He has a clear view of Mickey from there and he can look at him without really looking directly at him. He won’t get snarled at. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll take his sweet fucking time stocking the chips. And every single bag he puts on the shelf, he’ll take a look at Mickey. It’s not like he’ll let Ian do anything for him if he needs anything, but if he’s right there keeping an eye on him…

“The fuck you lookin’ at firecrotch?”

Damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's going to leave out one particular detail for now... We'll see what he does with it in the future.
> 
> Keep in mind that this first ending is the path of least resistance so some character slippage will probably happen.
> 
> One of the things that can end up being really satisfying about this is to pick them up at a point where Ian is already convinced Mickey loves him (I know what he felt with me...). And Mickey (entering the living room stark naked offering his rosary to Ian) has started getting comfortable physically with Ian.


	4. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Mickey...
> 
> (I almost want to apologize for the language, but it's Mickey so I'm not going to)

Eighteen

 

Fuck, he doesn’t know what to think. What to believe. There’s no way in hell that skinny bitch got the better of his dad. Even if she stabbed him with her earring, hit him with the beads, and somehow managed to get a hold of the gun. Fuck, that sounds like a poorly constructed plot in some girl-power action movie. But who the fuck could make that shit up? Not Gallagher. He couldn’t make that shit up. 

Stupid fucker’s been looking at him every two fucking seconds all fucking day and it’s making Mickey want to crawl out of his fucking skin. Or is it the feel of her on him that’s making him want to crawl out of his fucking skin? Even after a shower, scrubbing his junk until it was painful. And fuck, his head hurts. It’s foggy, way too fucking foggy to be thinking about this shit. 

But he can’t stop thinking about this shit. It’s on a fucking endless repeat in his head. What the hell else is there? He’s sitting behind the register, icing his face, and the ginger idiot won’t even let him get up to get his own fresh bag of whatever the fuck frozen veggie. Fuck frozen veggies. They’re probably mushy and taste like cardboard. Only veggie Mickey has ever had is canned and they’re mushy and taste like aluminum. Gross. Veggies are gross. 

Fuck, he’s hungry. But his stomach is all knotted and twisted up. And he doesn’t dare eat. And it’s not like he’s used to eating every few hours like normal fucking people. He might scrape a meal together once a day. Fuck, he should have gotten his ass fired this afternoon. Juvie’s a cakewalk and he ain’t got much time before he’ll be doing his time in big boy prison. Eighteen in… 

Eighteen in… he closes his eyes to the sight of the ceiling in this shithole store where the paper reel squeals and it hurts his damn ears. And it’s squealing right now. And he can feel Ian’s presence right next to him. The drawer with it’s, what, springing sound? Whatever the fuck sound that is. And he can hear Ian’s voice counting change to whatever shithead just bought something here instead of stealing it. Shithead. Can’t even figure out how easy it is to just steal something from this shithole and walk out the fucking door with it? 

Eighteen in… fuck. Fuck. Stupid fucking ginger better not figure it out. Fucking Linda better not remember, she’d have it on file somewhere, whatever fucking paperwork would have to be filled out to make this job legal, it’s not like she’d say anything, would she? No, she wouldn’t. Mandy, fuck Mandy. Dumb bitch always gets shit for her brothers for their birthdays, sure they’re all fuckin’ stolen. Last year she gave him a new pocket knife, which was actually really fuckin’ nice and he wondered out loud who she blew to get it, and she punched him. Hard enough to honestly hurt but he’d never tell her that. 

And fuck, if she remembers, shit, fuck. Shit, she better not say a fucking word in front of firecrotch. Fuck. 

Eighteen, huh? Mickey never thought he’d see this day. Or at least not from this side of freedom. Not that it fuckin’ matters. What’s he gonna do? Buy smokes? Buy porn? Register with armed services? 

He doesn’t mean to, but he snickers out loud at that. 

“What?” 

Opening his eyes in time to see a half-smile, all dopey as fuck, on Gallagher’s face. Leaning his butt against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Mickey would never admit it, he never will admit it, but that chest is a comfortable fucking place to rest. And he’ll never fess up to it, he’ll never let on but he may have for just a minute, not even a minute, rested his head there last night. Fuck, he might have woken up there in a puddle of his own drool when he got up to piss in the middle of the morning, glad for Ian still being sound asleep because he’d never live that one down if he knew. And he’d never live it down if Ian knew he slide his fingers through his hair when he sat up this morning, that he watched him sleep for a few minutes. And he thought about how fucking gorgeous he is when his lips aren’t moving and nothing stupid is coming out of his mouth.

“Nothing,” he shrugs.

“Need a new bag?”

“Nah, just need my dick in your mouth.”

“Okay,” shrugging with that cocky fucking smirk on his face, like Mickey is his fucking property or some shit. Like he’s the only person on this planet that makes Mickey’s dick hard or some shit. Like he’s the only person in this universe that’s allowed to brush his lips against Mickey’s, like he’s doing right now, or some shit. And Mickey punches him. But all Ian does is grin wider as he strides his way over to the door to turn the lock.

————

Fuck, that should do it. The feel of his warm mouth, his wet lips sliding over the tip of Mickey’s dick. Shit, that should do it. His big damn hands grasping Mickey’s balls, squeezing gently as his mouth slides further down the shaft.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” gasping, hands clamping down on the shelf. That should do it, that should erase the feel of that whore against his body. That’ll do it, his mouth. Ian’s mouth. His eyes force themselves shut, the blackness in his lids spins and his stomach turns. 

‘She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid.’

“Fuck,” eyes opening. Bad idea, fucking bad idea to close them. Fuck, his head hurts. Tilting to look down at Ian. Fucker is looking up at him. With his dick in his mouth and his fucking eyes are looking up at Mickey. 

And Mickey can’t fucking breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. What the fuck is happening? His vision is getting blurry and he feels sick to his fucking stomach. 

But those eyes. Looking up at him, and his hands. One hand is groping at his balls and the other is… what the fuck is the other one looking for?

He’s never sucked his dick before. It’s always been just fucking. Just a quick fuck. He’s never had his dick sucked by a dude before. This is different. But why can’t he fucking breathe? 

His hands are both wandering now. Where are they going? What is he looking for? They’re both grasping Mickey’s hips, mouth popping off his dick. But he’s not done. If he could catch his damn breath he’d fuck him up. Hands tugging, hard. 

Fuck, he’s dizzy. And now he’s on the ground. No, he’s in Ian’s lap. He’s sitting in Ian’s fucking lap, straddling him in the storage room. And what the fuck? His hands are in his hair and he’s tipping Mickey’s face towards his and he’s pressing his lips against his and Mickey still can’t fucking breathe. But his mouth is opening and Ian’s tongue is pushing through and it tickles against the roof of his mouth before it disappears and he’s sucking Mickey’s lip into his mouth and what the fuck? What the fuck is he doing? His hands are sliding across Mickey’s ass. 

Fucking stupid fuck. He releases Mickey’s lip only to press his tongue into his mouth again. But he can’t get his damn clothes off. Dumb fucker has him pinned between his knees and his body and he can’t get his fucking pants off and get that fucker in him. His stupid fucking hands are gripping his hips and tugging him closer. 

Now his lips leave Mickey’s and Mickey takes a fucking breath, it actually passes his throat into his lungs and his head clears a little before it spins again and Ian dives into his lips, attacking his mouth. What the fuck is his problem? Why the fuck does he think this okay? Why the fuck does he think this is something Mickey enjoys? 

Some weird noise comes out of Mickey’s body. He’s not even sure where it came from and it gets stifled inside Ian’s mouth and his stupid fucking hands slide around his hips and start gently slipping over his dick. His stupid fucking dick is twitching and leaking. And that stupid fucking noise comes out of his body again and what the fuck is happening? 

Jesus, this stupid fucking ginger is strong for how lanky and dopey looking he is. Lifting at Mickey’s hips and leaning into him until he’s lying on his back on the fucking floor. And Ian is lifting his shirt and kissing a stupid line of warm kisses that are rising goosebumps on his flesh, right down his chest, and straight to his damn dick that is so fucking achy right now, it’s not even going to make it all the way down his throat and, “shit, fuck, it’s…” 

Hands are in his hair, gripping his head trying to get him to pull back. What the fuck? He won’t pull back, he just gives his balls a tiny pulse of a grip as a finger rubs his asshole and it forces the orgasm. Right down his fucking throat. What a fucking fag. What the fuck?

“You fuckin’…” what the fuck is he doing now? He’s got that dumbass smile on his face and his eyes are locked onto Mickey’s and he’s leaning over him and his one hand is still fucking around Mickey’s asshole, and now he’s over him and yanking his jeans off while his fucking face disappears into Mickey’s neck. Kissing his neck. He’s kissing his fucking neck. 

Mickey’s jeans are gone. Ian’s jeans are gone. His lips disappear and so does his shirt. And now Mickey’s shirt is being dragged over his head. And his head is still foggy and his ears are ringing and Ian’s mouth is meeting his again and it tastes kind of tangy and salty. And Jesus fuck that’s his own fucking cum isn’t it? That’s the taste of his own fucking cum. Fucking disgusting faggot has the taste of Mickey’s cum on his tongue and now it’s on Mickey’s fucking tongue. 

Fuck. That fucking noise happens again and his damn finger presses inside Mickey’s body and he should be telling him to get the fuck off him. To get his queer lips off his, and his homo fingers out of his ass, and his gay cock away from Mickey’s because now they’re touching each other as Ian is starting to rock against him in the same rhythm that his damn finger is moving and now it’s two fingers and that stupid noise happens again. And this time it’s lost in the taste of his own cum on Ian’s tongue and his chest is foggy and his head is spinning. 

Where the fuck does this idiot even keep his lube? He always has the shit with him and he’s always using so fucking much of it. Like it’s gonna somehow hurt if he only uses spit or some shit? Fucking idiot. 

Fuck, fuck. Three. Three fucking fingers and Mickey feels himself rocking towards Ian. And his damn dick is getting stiff again, so fucking stiff it already hurts. Or still hurts, or maybe it never even had a chance to get soft and maybe the stupid queer thing is just overstimulated or some shit and how the fuck are his fingers so fucking slippery that three of them aren’t even uncomfortable? And since when does Ian want to finger Mickey’s asshole? And take his damn time doing it instead of just doing that stupid annoying scissor thing and then fucking him. ‘Cause if he doesn’t at least let him do something, then his asshole will skin his dick or whatever that fucking pussy said. 

Fuck. There’s another orgasm welling up in his belly and the idiot still isn’t in him. What the fuck is his problem? What the fuck is he waiting for? Another one of those noises? ‘Cause it just fucking happened. And why the fuck does that just keep happening? Fuck, Mickey must seriously be concussed because this shit is fucking weird. And now he hears himself whispering, “Ian,” into Ian’s mouth and it sounds like a weak fuckin’ bitch begging to be fucked and all it was, was just one fucking word but it sounded so fucking pathetic. It sounded so fucking pathetic that now Ian is lifting his head, his hand is sliding over Mickey’s cheek and he’s fucking smiling at him. Some stupid fucking dopey cheesy fucking smile that Mickey’s never seen before and he fucking hates it. But he doesn’t fucking hate it. He wants to see it. All the fucking time. He wants to see nothing but that for the rest of his fucking life and now the idiot is raising his eyebrows like he’s asking him for permission or some shit. And now Mickey is nodding and his breath is hitching in his throat again while Ian guides his damn cock inside Mickey’s body. 

And Mickey fucking gasps and puts his hand palm-down on Ian’s chest. Like he needs to wait a minute or some shit. Like he needs some fucking cuddling first or something stupid, like some bitch. Like he’s some bitch who needs eye contact and gentle penetration, and kisses and fucking kisses. 

His stupid fucking hand is behind Mickey’s head and his forehead is meeting his and his breath is inside Mickey’s mouth because Mickey’s stupid mouth is just hanging open and inhaling Ian’s exhales and he’s rocking so fucking slow he’s barely moving. This can’t be considered moving, this is not even…

What the fuck is this? And why the fuck is Mickey’s breath caught in his throat again? And his head is spinning but now it doesn’t feel the same, it doesn’t feel the same as it did a minute ago. When his fucking eyes close his lids are all spotted and lit up like the time they set up some C-4 that Colin stole from an Army base in the courtyard of the empty buildings and set it off. And holy fuck was that a thing of beauty. Fuck, it almost made him want to join the service but the only branch that would take him with his record is the fuckin’ Marines and he ain’t about to go to boot camp and have some fucker in a fuckin’ Smokey Bear hat in his face callin’ him a fuckin’ maggot and ‘the best part of you dripped down your mama’s asscrack’ and shit like that. He’d never make it through boot camp without knocking someone’s fucking teeth in. Fuck that. 

But that fucking C-4. Fuck, that was beautiful. Now, how the fuck does something like that happen in his fucking eyelids when he closes his eyes and Ian’s lips are on his and his dick is in his ass and his hand is on the back of his head and now his other hand is gripping Mickey’s dick and now Mickey is making that fucking noise again. What the fuck is that? Seriously, what the fuck is that? It’s not a moan. Or a groan. Or a whine. Or even a fucking grunt. It’s like some fucking raspy choked off… what? Cry? Like he’s in pain? What?

Mickey’s hands are clamped down on Ian’s asscheeks and he’s certain he’s leaving marks but he can’t fucking release, not even a little. Not even a tiny fucking bit. And how the fuck long have they been doing this? It feels like it’s been ten fucking years and only ten fucking seconds and that pool of orgasm in his stomach is rolling to his dick in Ian’s grasp and he’s jerking it at the same lazy fucking barely moving pace he’s rocking into Mickey, and it’s too late anyway. It’s spewing out of him in an aching pulsing reaction to the feel of Ian’s dick doing the same fucking thing in Mickey’s ass, and now his fucking toes are curled over and his whole fucking body is rising to meet Ian’s and that stupid fucking noise happens again and for a split second all he hears is ringing in his ears and all he sees are spots in his eyes and his stomach clamps again. But this time doesn’t seem like a fuckin’ concussion symptom. It feels like some kind of fucking nervous reaction to the fucking shit that’s about to come out of his fucking mouth and he can’t fucking stop it and it’s so fucking queer to admit, “fuck, that was good,” and it’s fucking shaky and breathy.

Fucking queer. And Ian’s laugh is against his mouth and he feels it shake in his belly and against his chest and now his stupid hand is gently removing itself from behind Mickey’s head and his stupid nose is nuzzling against the tip of Mickey’s and his stupid fingers are sliding over Mickey’s cheek. His right cheek, the one that isn’t fucking throbbing but somehow it’s fucking wet. It fucking stings. Why the fuck does it sting? 

His thumb is tracing the rim of Mickey’s lower eyelid like he’s wiping a fucking tear off as his lips meet Mickey’s again. This time they part but his tongue doesn’t do anything, his lips just sort of make themselves comfortable over and around Mickey’s. And they just fucking rest there.

And fuck, Mickey is tired. He’s so fucking tired. If this fucking floor was more than concrete and dirty, sticky fucking floor he’d be asleep already. Fuck, he might sleep anyway. He’s slept in worse places. At least this place has a roof. And no one’s going to try mugging him in the middle of the night. Fuck, that dumbass ginger will probably stand outside the fucking door and keep guard all day. All night. What the fuck time is it? Fuck, it must be close to six by now. Linda said six, didn’t she? Not that it fucking matters, she’ll watch her damn cameras and fire them both tomorrow for locking the store down in the middle of the day and fucking in the storage room. 

Fuck it. His fingers finally release Ian’s asscheeks and he groans against Mickey’s mouth. He’s going to bitch about it. He’s about to bitch about it right now. So Mickey just opens his fucking mouth and runs his tongue along Ian’s bottom lip and he shuts the fuck up. 

Jesus fuck, he’s going to end up running out of this fucking storage room waving a rainbow flag, wearing skinny jeans, and talking with a lisp. 

What a fucking homo. Hands sliding up Ian’s back, one staying on his shoulder blade, the other finding the back of his head and pressing him further into an open-mouthed-sloppy-as-fuck kiss. 

And fuck, fuck that, it feels good. It feels fucking good. And now he’s smiling against Ian’s mouth. Fuck, he’s so fucking queer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually go back and double check - but if his birthday is supposed to be in August, which is what's listed on the fandom page so I'll roll with it - this could have happened on his birthday. I don't think the kids were back in school yet during the time they were in foster care and the group home. I could very easily be wrong, but I'm going to pretend I'm right and play with it.
> 
> Wouldn't it have been sweet if they actually had some face-to-face, making out, slow and lazy sex at this point in their relationship? Mickey obviously, after spending eighteen years with Terry would still have some internalized homophobia, but I think it'd be easier for him to accept himself if the rape hadn't actually occurred. And if Ian had been supportive and understanding at this point. 
> 
> I have a few more chapters for this ending. I will need some feedback (I don't discourage feedback regardless I just rarely remind people to do it, but feel free at any point) for how to post this. Is it going to be best flow-wise to post as a series? Or since every story will have the same first chapter but then take a different route from there, will it make more sense to post them each as a separate work? Let me know what you think!


	5. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Svetlana

An Offer

 

Svetlana doesn’t stop moving until her feet are raw and blood from broken blister is pooling in toe of her shoe. She’s never going back there. Never going back to Sasha’s. Never going back to Anatoly. Never rubbing and fucking and sucking skin sticks for money. Never again.

She sits heavily on the park bench. Her shoulder aching, blood has dripped down her arm, pooled in crevice of her elbow and spreading like tentacles to back of her hand. Watching it dry in the heat of the summer’s day. 

Watching the river. Water as it swishes past. Wondering now, if she jumped. If she just walked off ledge into dirty water. Is current strong enough? Or will she just wash up downstream covered in algae and sewage spills, runoff from industries further down river. 

She has no money. Not even enough to get on train. She has not single penny to her name. What does she know? What skills does she have? Just sex. That’s all she’s ever been. Sex. Distraction to men. Always distraction to men. 

Turning her head, eyes wander faces walking back to work after lunch, bikers, runners on trail behind her. Make right eyes at right man, she’ll have money for train. One more ugly skin stick and it’s over. One more. She can do this one more time.

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to remember her mother’s words one more time, ‘cook, clean, do wifely duties. Find man. Cook, clean, wifely duties’. But that isn’t her. That was never her. She wanted to be astronaut when she was girl. Stupid fucking dreams of a child.

Feeling a presence beside her on the bench. This is the one. Easy prey. He’ll walk right into her trap, want to help poor stupid woman with bullet graze on shoulder. With tiny fucking dress and heals. Stupid fucking woman. 

Once more. Once more for look. ‘Take me, I’ll be worth your time’, as she opens her eyes and turns to make eye contact with presence beside her. Woman. She’s pretty for cop. Plain clothes but Svetlana is no idiot.

“Going to arrest me?” Svetlana wonders immediately. Without flinching. Without caring, “deport me?”

“No,” her voice is gritty and rough, her eyes are compassionate and something about her makes Svetlana think she’s been one sitting broken on park bench before, “I’m going to get your wound treated and I’m going to offer you a deal.”

“Deal,” Svetlana snorts, wishing she had a good spit to roll around on her tongue and launch at woman’s boots.

She doesn’t have to say it, she doesn’t have to say anything at all. Everything about Svetlana screams ‘whore’. Her eyes glittery as she watches Svetlana, “you don’t want to do this anymore,” her hand motioning length of her body, “I don’t want to arrest you. I don’t want to deport you. A well placed woman,” she won’t say whore, “can be very useful to law enforcement.”

“A snitch of a whore?”

“No. A woman who wants out of the sex industry. A woman who needs citizenship. And an offer for just that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without citizenship and without 'unique skills' Svetlana would be pretty well fucked at this point if she couldn't go back to Sasha. Enter a well placed detective who has her own shitty background and won't just immediately arrest and deport her.
> 
> Chicago PD watchers - this is definitely a cheap rip-off of the Det. Lindsay/Nadia Decotis storyline. But I won't put Svet in the hands of a serial rapist/killer.


	6. Fucked For Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone going to find out it's Mickey's birthday?

Fucked For Life

 

He watches his hand rise to tap the wooden door. Not sure what to expect. Not sure who’s going to be home. He had to get to the group home right away after work. And Mickey didn’t make the offer, but when Lip snuck Mandy in again, Ian went out. 

His stomach jumps to the back of his mouth when the door opens to one of the brother’s faces. Not sure which one. He can’t keep them straight in his mind yet, “Um, Mickey home?”

“The fuck you want with Mickey?” cigarette lit and pinched in the corner of his lips. 

“Just, um, I just owe him some money is all,” he tries. 

It works. The door is left open and the brother disappears into the house shouting, “Mick! Got a customer says he’s got money.”

At most houses the open door is an open invitation to enter, but here it feels different. It just feels like ‘too lazy to shut the door, but if you walk in you might get your head blown off’. Recognizing Mickey’s grumpy grumbling response and a few beer cans being kicked out of the way before his face appears. Immediately grabbing Ian’s arm and stepping outside, pulling the door shut behind him with angry brows and a forceful, “the fuck you doin’ here?”

“I,” all useful thoughts disappearing from his mind as his eyes linger on Mickey’s, feeling a half smile rise and a shrug, “didn’t know where else to go?”

Brows dipping further as he lights a smoke, scanning Ian’s face slowly, “you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“I know,” reaching for the cigarette as Mickey lowers it from his mouth. 

His left hand immediately rises in the air between them, waving Ian’s hand off and taking another drag before he hands it over, “can’t stay here.”

“I know.”

“The fuck you doin’ here then?”

He shrugs, the weight of his ROTC pack stuffed with supplies heavy on his shoulders, “got a six pack, a sleeping bag, and whole fucking city worth of places to sleep.”

Lips pursing, sucking in those cheeks for a moment, rolling his words around on his tongue while he considers just how harshly he wants to respond to the offer. The words don’t come out, his eyes roll and he disappears into the house. 

He didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t even take the smoke back. Ian has no idea what that means in normal person language, but in Mickey language, it means ‘I’ll be right back’. 

————

“How’s your face?” he finally gets up the nerve to wonder as they enter the courtyard of the abandoned buildings where Mickey comes to shoot guns and break shit.

“Fuck off,” growling in Ian’s general direction.

“That good, huh?”

Finger response this time as he swings his stocky body over an old railing and heads up the stairs of the highest building still standing. Ian follows behind him at just the right pace for his eyes to be level with Mickey’s ass the entire way up the steps. That ass, it is just too much to resist, and one of these days he won’t be able to anymore. Or today, today might be that day, today’s okay. They’re alone back here. He’ll get shoved for it, or punched for it, or hollered at for it. But…

His hand rises, reaching out as Mickey crests the final set of steps, and it slides right into the back pocket of his jeans. Taking a tight handful of cheek, congratulating himself internally for choosing perfect timing and remembering to avoid the injured cheek. Mickey won’t push him when he’s still on the steps. And if he turns around, one stair higher than Ian, if he turns around he is at exactly the right height for Ian to just lean forward. 

He can’t help it. That open-mouthed kiss earlier. The one that Mickey initiated. Ian was instantly addicted. It’s all he could think about for the rest of the day. Mickey’s usually on his hormone hijacked brain, but this afternoon it was a different part of Mickey. Normally it’s just the sex, that’s all Mickey has allowed himself to be anyway. Not the intimacy, not the eye contact. Those things never existed before. Even that first kiss, it was so quick and nothing about it was gentle, flipping him off after as he walked away with that perfectly beautiful smirk on his face. Fuck, he knows he’s gorgeous.

Last night, it started just a little, just a tiny crack in the armor that is Mickey Milkovich. A tiny sliver of light. Showing Ian that yes, he wanted to feel wanted. He wanted to be touched and kissed. He’d never fucking admit it, but he wanted to be treated with respect. He didn’t want to just be that warm hole and Ian sure as fuck wasn’t just a warm mouth to him. Not that he ever let him be a warm mouth before. Fuck, he rarely let Ian be a warm palm to him. 

He’s a warm mouth now. He’s a warm overeager hungry as fuck mouth that can’t be fucking stopped and Mickey doesn’t seem to mind one fucking bit. His hands though. It’s like he has no idea what to do with his hands ever. Always reaching for something but never landing for long unless it’s a bare asscheek and then they grab so fucking hard it hurts like hell but Ian doesn’t actually mind it. 

Hands right now, taking fistfuls of Ian’s shirt, pulsing grips while he decides what to do. Push or pull? Keep gripping, or flatten out? Brick or soft and pliable?

Flatten out. Push gently, and break the kiss. The bird in the air as he turns, but his other hand is rising to thumb at his nose, clearing his throat. Just going to pretend that didn’t happen. But Ian would be blind to miss the incredible pink blush rising on his face. He drops his own bag of supplies, which of course is a few guns and the random shit he picked out of the dumpsters on the walk here to shoot at. What else would a date with this guy look like? A sit-down dinner with dress shirts and the kind of pants that need to be ironed? 

He laughs to himself at the image of Mickey using silverware. He’d probably be a total asshole to the waitress, then moo at his plate or something.

Emptying his own supplies, the thin foam sleeping mat, the sleeping bag. Laying them out against the far wall, setting the six pack and the jug of water out. Digging all the way to the bottom for the crinkly wrapper, “here,” tossing the Snickers to Mickey.

He snags it, looks at it like it’s a foreign object and wonders, “the fuck is this for?”

“Uh, for you,” fuck, he’s so dim for someone so bright, “happy birthday asshole.”

“Fuck you,” he tries but it’s not very convincing even though his brows are risen, and he flinches a little when they move. Like he can’t control the damn things and it hurts every time to move them, but he’d never admit it. 

“If you want to,” he half-smiles and half-shrugs. 

And now Mickey’s looking at him either like he’s an idiot or admitting wanting to fuck Ian would make him queer. Ian’s not sure which one hurts more so his eyes drop to the ground between them and he leans back against the crumbling plaster at his back. Hands in his pockets. What a dumb fucking offer. Mickey’s already made it pretty fucking clear he bottoms with Ian. And only Ian. And that’s how they do it. There’s no switching it up. 

“Never-mind,” he hears himself whisper. Idiot, aside from the near-rape, this whole fucking weekend has been incredible. And now, here he is getting all butt-hurt about some stupid offer his own stupid mouth made. Knowing he’d get a blank stare or flat-out denial.  
Truth is, Ian’s never done it. He’s never really wanted to. But Mickey. Fuck, there’s just something about Mickey that makes him want to do anything, and everything. And the way Mickey’s face looked earlier, the way it looked like he was maxed out on pleasure and teetering on the brink of sanity, Ian wants to feel that. 

Even when Mickey’s rushing, and being impatient, and kicking Ian in the shins when he tries to touch him. It’s still the most incredible sex Ian has ever had. Probably will ever have. He can’t imagine anything could be better, he loves topping and he loves fucking Mickey, he loves the way he feels and the way he looks. And his damn cocky smirk and his expressive eyebrows. He loves how bad he is at communicating but how easy it is to read his emotions by the level of his brows. He loves how snappy and grumpy he is. Fuck, his eyes rise to meet those incredible blue ones that are still staring at him without saying a damn word, he loves Mickey. Fuck. 

Who’s fucked for life now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so much room for exploration with picking them up at this point in their relationship, I'd be stupid not to explore ;) 
> 
> So will Mickey? Or won't he?


	7. Damn Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will he?

Damn Puppy

 

That stupid fuck. With his big green eyes all full of hope and then glazing over with hurt and falling to the floor between them. Fuck him. Why the fuck would he chose fucking now, of all fucking times to make that offer? And now Mickey looks like a piece of shit if he says no. Again. And if he says no. Again. Then the asshole will probably get up and leave. Then Mickey’ll be back here alone with this pounding in his head and the fuckin’ echoes of his dad’s voice in his ears and the feel of that whore against his dick and fuck.

If he says no again, then he has to give him a real explanation this time. Not just one of those ‘not enough time firecrotch’ things that he usually says, like he knows he’s some bitch that needs foreplay and he ain’t gonna deny that, so he just nods and fucks Mickey. Or the whole ‘do the fucking in juvie so it’s nice to switch it up’ thing that he buys into every single fucking time. What the fuck does he think juvie is, some sex club? Fuck, sure he hooked up with a dude in there ‘cause he was fuckin’ horny as fuck and there was no other option but it ain’t like big boy prison where the rapings are real, sure sometimes in juvie it gets real, but honestly they’re mostly a bunch of misled teenagers that are fucking scared but they’d never admit they’re scared. Spread a few good rumors and do one or two things to back it up, you get left alone. Long as you don’t piss off the wrong banger or the wrong guard. That, and no one steals Mikey’s jello then it’s smooth sailing. 

Fuck juvie. Mickey hates topping. Real reason, ‘cause he fucks chicks. And he don’t wanna fuck chicks. Fuck. Well what the fuck? Maybe he fucks Ian and he doesn’t think about pussy. Maybe he fucks Ian and all he thinks about is Ian. But then what if it hurts, and Mickey knows it’ll hurt and what if it shows on that stupid dopey fucking face? And fuck, his hand rises to rub his face and he flinches himself back a step. What the fuck? He seriously can’t remember for five damn minutes that his face is all fucked up, he just keeps reaching for it anyway even though it’s fucking throbbing every single time he moves. 

“Fuck,” his damn fingers are grinding into his lids and it’s making him sick to his damn stomach and he never did eat anything today. So the Snickers is a fucking great gift but now he’s just gripping it and it’s probably melting in his sweaty fucking hands, “I don’t wanna fuck you for your first time when I’m all fucked up and dizzy and shit,” he stalks over, plopping down next to the idiot with the puppy dog eyes that are lingering on him and he might as well have just pissed on his birthday cake. 

“But you’ll sit back here and shoot guns when you’re head is…”

“Look closer Army, fuck,” he smirks at him, “amateur. They’re fuckin’ airguns. Ya know, pellets and BB’s,” his elbow meets Ian’s ribs when he finally sits down.

“I know what an airgun is,” he scoffs at him, but he’s still wearing that stupid disappointed expression. 

“You’re a dick.”

“Me? Why now?”

“Quit fucking lookin’ at me like I popped your balloon.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Well, you kinda did,” he shrugs, eyes dropping.

“My birthday,” he grumbles towards his feet, “how the fuck’s it about you?”

“Yeah. Your birthday. I just thought,” he stumbles over his words. Which is a good damn indicator he’s nervous as fuck, “never-mind.”

Mickey sighs, fingers rising, pausing midair as his head recoils from his own fuckin’ fingers. Like his fuckin’ face remembered but his brain didn’t, “what the fuck?” and that wasn’t supposed to be out loud, but it was, “Jesus fuck,” the hand that’s in midair extends towards Ian, finds his face and drags him over close, “it fuckin’ hurts you tell me,” asserting with eyes locked on to those stupid fuckin’ green ones as a dopey fuckin’ smile rises.

There, admitting he doesn’t want to hurt him without actually saying those cheesy fuckin’ words. That should make him happy. He’ll puss out anyway. As soon as a second finger breeches the gates, he’ll squirm his way away and want to go back to how they do things.   
“Got it?” his eyebrows rise and he fuckin’ flinches again. Stupid fuckin’ face.

He nods, overeager like a damn puppy. Mickey’s never wanted a puppy. They shit on the floor and they bite and they jump and they’re all lick-y and bark-y and annoying. Fuck, this stupid puppy is at least potty-trained. And his licks are, well, fine, they’re fuckin’ great. He’s great with his tongue. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he will, he never could resist those puppy dog eyes!


	8. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's first time bottoming - and oh yeah, it's happening the way it should have happened - with Mickey Milkovich.

Roots

 

Shit, maybe Lip was right. About the whole use of the digestive system, like it’s an exit not an entrance. So it probably shouldn’t be used this way. And yeah, Mickey was right, it stings at first. And Ian bites his lip and hides his face in Mickey’s neck and Mickey stops moving. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he lies. It stings like a bitch right now even after a shit-ton of warm-up. Maybe Mickey’s dick doesn’t seem huge in Ian’s hands, but it feels huge in his ass. It feels like a tree trunk. 

He hears Mickey scoff, knowing exactly what kind of look will be on his face if he looks at him. But he doesn’t look at him. Instead, feels Mickey’s arms wrapping around his back, leaning into him and… rolling? Rolling them both. Ian’s still pressed up tight against his chest but he’s on top now.

“Not fair,” he hears himself protest. Mickey refuses to ride Ian. But it is literally every single scenario that plays out in Ian’s mind when he’s jerking off. Laying back and watching Mickey grind into him, watching every muscle ripple across his abs as he rocks and his breathing picks up pace and there’s always something for Mickey to hang onto, so that his arms are flexed too and Ian can see every single expression on his face. And his dick is always right there, where Ian can watch himself jerk it.

“Hey,” his voice rumbles against Ian’s face, “don’t wanna do it, ain’t gonna make ya. But, ah, at least hold your damn self up a bit. You’re fuckin’ heavy.”

Mickey’s shoulders are on bare ground, probably getting glass shards and bullet casings ground into them, and his head is still thumping, and his ribs probably hurt from whatever other hits Terry landed. And his poor perfect ass is bare against the sleeping bag, those pellet wounds have to at least still be sore. But it’s not like he’d admit that. So it’s Ian’s fault, “yeah,” adjusting some weight to his knees, elbows, “ouch,” without thinking as a rock grinds into his elbow. 

Mickey’s quick, enough to startle the hell out of Ian, dragging himself out of Ian’s body and shoving up on his hips with both hands. He hears Mickey’s breath catch in his throat and he lifts his head. Looking down at him, he’s never seen this look on his face. He thought he’d seen them all, “what?” he wonders towards those creased brows.

“I ain’t fuckin’ you Gallagher.”

“What? Why? You didn’t even give me a chance to get used to it,” accusing, being certain to hold his voice steady. 

He’s already squirming his way out from underneath him and his thumb is tracing his lower lip while his eyes dart to the pile of clothes. When his hand drops, undoubtedly headed for his boxers, Ian grabs it. Shit, that look was concern. That’s what that was. Mickey Milkovich was concerned about hurting Ian Gallagher? What a fucking softy.

He can’t help the smile that’s rising with the realization, “the ouch was a rock Mick,” lifting his elbow to show him the indent in his skin.  
Now he won’t look Ian’s way. Fuck him for being so fucking closed off and stubborn. Ian sighs, sitting up now and leaning against the wall, “you’re such a stubborn prick,” he hears himself announce. 

Not responding verbally, arms rising to cross over his chest after he shakes his hand out of Ian’s grasp. Out of the corner of his eyes he watches him chew his lower lip for a long moment, finally shrugging, “yeah. So?”

Good fucking Christ, this guy is fucking impossible. This is going to take some aggression. Not giving Mickey time to think, he swings his leg over his lap and makes himself comfortable, immediately crashing into his lips to block any words from exiting. Left hand sliding over his unharmed cheek, gripping the back of his head to keep him close. Right hand finding his cock that’s half-soft now in his lap but it doesn’t take much to get it full salute. Doesn’t take long for Mickey’s hands to rise either. Finding Ian’s hips, sliding over an asscheek. 

“Oh fuck,” he gasps against Mickey’s mouth as he guides him back inside his body. But this time, under his full control and with the distraction of Mickey’s lips against his, that aching stretch is a pretty good fucking ache. 

And the heat of Mickey’s mouth, the whispered, “good?” 

Is, “yes,” fucking great. But his breath it too cut off to say all that, accepting Mickey’s tongue in his mouth and meeting it with his own eagerly. This guy. Fuck, this guy’s kisses and touches and pure vulnerability when they’re alone is an exact contradiction to every single other part of him. Every action he takes and every word he speaks to make himself seem tough and hard. 

And he is tough, he’s tough as a fucking living breathing human being can be, he has to be to have survived eighteen years with that monster of a father, but that monster didn’t break him, did he? He didn’t wreck that beautiful caring heart that is beating so hard right now against Ian’s own. And as much as Mickey will deny it, probably forever, that beautiful caring heart has fallen completely in love with Ian. 

That hard shell he’s created around himself is all cracked and broken and so gorgeous in pieces around them. He’ll pick those damn pieces back up before he leaves this building, going back into the world he’s used to without that shell wouldn’t be possible for a guy like Mickey. Maybe someday he won’t need it.

Maybe someday, Ian thinks as he slides his hand down Mickey’s chest, palm down against his heart. Letting himself feel every single beat as he moves his hips in a gentle rhythm, pulling his lips away from Mickey’s but leaning his forehead in to rest there. Fuck, he wants to say it, he wants to say it now. That he loves him. That Ian loves Mickey and he already fucking knows that Mickey loves Ian, he doesn’t have to say it back if he doesn’t want to. It doesn’t matter, it’s right there anyway. In the way he touches him, the way he looks at him, the way he’s letting Ian hold onto him right now. Like he’s one of those cartoons hanging on to some tiny branch dangling off a cliff, and the branch is cracking. 

But Ian’s branch is rooted firmly, and it’s not cracking any time soon. 

————

He’s not entirely certain how it was decided Mickey would share Ian’s sleeping bag. Or when it was decided he’d get the zipper side so his arms could hang out in the summer’s barely cooling night air while everything in the bag is sweaty and sticky and way too fucking warm, but it’s Mickey so Ian doesn’t mind it one bit. He’s not entirely sure when Mickey’s butt became a magnet against Ian’s groin, or his neck started emitting that pull to Ian’s nose to just bury it there in that scent. That Mickey scent that Ian sometimes gets a good whiff of when they’re fucking but otherwise never gets to enjoy. He’s not sure why Mickey has him pinned between his back and the wall, like Mickey is some kind of shield between him and the stairwell, but he’s certain if he moves right now he’ll get punched. 

And he has to piss. Bad. 

He is certain of when Mickey dozed off. And he is certain he’s going to wake him every hour, even though it’ll get him punched every single time, but if he doesn’t wake him every hour then he won’t know just how severe the concussion is. They’ve played this game with Carl enough times to know. There’s fifteen more minutes until the first hour is over and he can wake him up and leave a piss. There’s fifteen minutes until his watch starts beeping right under Mickey’s ear. If the watch wakes him then he’ll probably let two hours pass next round. 

Tracing a hand down Mickey’s arm. Taking the opportunity while he’s sound asleep to follow a pattern of moonlight into his open hand, sliding his fingers between. Mickey doesn’t move, or grunt. 

His mind keeps tracking back to this morning. To the look on his face as the whore climbed into his lap. That look that made Ian’s entire universe come crashing to a halt. Made him understand what true hatred does to a person, how much does Terry honestly have to hate his child’s identity in order to do something like that to him? And Mandy? What he’s done to her. She just shrugs it off, like it doesn’t affect her. Like him raping her in the middle of the night, smelling like beer and cigarettes, like her father’s hands on her body, on her flesh, like her father’s penis on her and inside her; is no big deal. Just another day in the Milkovich house of horrors. 

This morning, coming face to face with the truth of the things he’s done to his children, the depth of it, witnessing it; Ian’s chest tightens and his breath catches. Uncontrollably his eyes fill and he buries his face deeper into Mickey’s neck. 

Wherever that piece of shit is now, right now, fuck. Hopefully he’s dead. Ian’ll never be able to tell Mickey the full truth. The truth that Terry was gaining the upper hand against the whore, that he was going to kill her. The truth that it was the swing of the bat that ended it. That Ian was the one that chased him off. Because it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter what Terry has done to his children, he is still their father, their only living parent. The biological connections, the dependence, the ‘blood is thicker than water’ motto that everyone lives by or is hardwired to believe, the code that thousands of years of evolution can’t undo; Terry is Mickey’s father. And if Ian’s actions this morning spurred him to abandon his children. Mickey would never see it as a blessing. 

What’ll happen now? If Terry is dead, if he never comes back? Sure, he won’t be around to hit his kids anymore. But he also won’t be around to pay the mortgage and set up the jobs. He won’t be around to keep the family under one roof. Will Mandy end up in the system? She’s only sixteen. It’s not like any of her siblings can adopt her with their mile long records. It’s not like her aunt will hide her at her place anymore. What else does she have? How long will the bills go unpaid before the house is foreclosed and the kids have to scatter? No one in the neighborhood has ever given enough of a shit about the Milkovich kids to call the cops on Terry before when he was beating them bloody, no one gave a shit this afternoon seeing what he did to Mickey’s face, and how many other times in their lives did they walk around with the bruises and scars from his actions, and no one did a damn thing? No, not a soul will call CPS on them.   
What happens when his business dealings catch up with him and it turns out he’s gone or dead? Then who has to pay the debts? His kids? If he’s running drugs and guns for someone, it’s a good fucking chance it’s someone dangerous as fuck who isn’t afraid to maim, torture, or kill a teenager to extract information about the old man’s whereabouts. Or pay Terry’s debt in blood. 

What happens if he’s not dead? If he’s just drinking it off somewhere? Fuck.

Is there any way he could talk to Lip about any of this? Then he’d have to tell him everything. Right now the secret is between Ian, Terry, and some nameless whore. They both have more to lose than Ian does if the events are spilled. She sounded straight off the boat, most likely illegal. Terry would lose the respect of his fellow asshole shitbag buddies if they knew he got his ass beat by a whore and a fag. 

What does Ian have to lose? Mickey. He’d lose Mickey. That’s a lot to fucking lose.

Fuck. Ian shudders, his arms accidentally gripping tighter around Mickey. He exhales a huffy protest of air at the contact. 

He’s still lucid enough to know what just happened but groggy enough not to get up and start blindly fighting his way out of the sleeping bag. That’s a good sign.

But Ian still has to piss. 

As soon as he pulls his arm out from under Mickey’s head, he’s on the defense. Startling with a gasp and fighting the sleeping bag to seated. Looking around with confusion in his brows, “just me,” Ian reminds him, “gotta piss.”

At least he fought the sleeping bag down far enough that it’s easier to get out of, squeezing his shoulders. Taking the damn chance to kiss the top of his head, much to Mickey’s displeasure. But Ian sees right through the facade. 

By the time he’s standing on the empty window ledge letting loose a stream, Mickey is sitting up, rubbing his eyes wondering, “ass sore?”

“No,” he lies.

“Yeah, okay tough guy.”

“Face sore?”

Dismissive grunt, waving him off with a hand in the air.

“Okay tough guy,” he mocks with a grin, tucking his dick back in his boxers and trying to walk normal. If Mickey knows his ass hurts, he’ll probably never talk him into fucking him again. And he wants to. He really wants to. 

Nudging him with his elbow when he lowers himself next to him. Met with silence. His head turns, watching Ian for a long moment, quietly declaring, “thanks.”

“For what?”

“Birthday shit,” his eyes are fucking gorgeous in the light of the moon. Bastard hasn’t eaten the Snickers. Just set it down on the floor by their stuff and keeps looking at it, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he touches it. 

Spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars, he feels himself smile, “well if you weren’t such a stubborn asshole about all things celebratory I would have brought you out to dinner or something. Got a free dessert and watched your face turn red while the wait staff sang to you.”

“You ever…” his finger rises menacingly in the space between their faces.

“I know,” swatting it away only to get swatted in retaliation. If his face didn’t look like that this would turn into a full-fledged wrestling match, but Ian lets it go. Instead leaning his head back against the wall and watching him chewing vigorously on his lower lip, “what’s running through that thick skull of yours?”

“Nothin’.”

“Okay Mick, let’s go back to sleep then,” his untrustworthy hand lands on Mickey’s knee.

It seems to startle the words out of his mouth, “Snickers was always my mom’s favorite. I never used to like ‘em.”

“You miss her?”

He shrugs. He’s never once talked about her. Asking him that was stupid and now he’ll shut down, “yeah,” admitting quietly. 

“What happened to her?”

“OD. Dad said it was on purpose.”

“You believe that?”

“No,” it shakes a little and his fingers rise to his eyes, cringing visibly before he gets to his feet. He steps onto the same window opening Ian pissed off of, as soon as his dick is out Ian feels a tingle of heat head straight to his own dick. Dropping his eyes quickly. Guy’s talking about his dead mom and Ian’s getting a stiffy. Re-adjusting himself in his boxers, sliding down to lay on his side on the make-shift bed. It’s uncomfortable as fuck, but he’d sleep here every single night for the rest of his life if it meant Mickey was in his arms.

Something he’ll have to get used to anyway. Sleeping on the ground. He really should have spent more time this summer working on academics instead of fucking around and fucking Mickey and getting high under the L and drinking at the ball field. Oh well, he’ll study hard during the school year.

What about Mickey? They’ll still be together then, he knows it. Now that he’s had Mickey he wants no one else. Now that Mickey’s had him, well, he really wants no one else. Will Mickey wait for him while he’s at the academy? After he graduates, will he move to base with him? Will he wait while Ian is overseas? Off on training missions for weeks at a time? 

He watches him walking slowly back towards him in the glow of the moonlight and the manmade haze of the summer sky in the city. Good fuck, he’s gorgeous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some serious potential to light this relationship in a softer hue at this point. So I'm just going to go right ahead and do that for now.


	9. Too Many Hail Marys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently path of least resistance is going to be smut heavy. Well, love heavy is what I should say.

Too Many Hail Marys

 

He wanted to punch him for showing up on the door step again. That stupid fucker. It’s only a matter of time before Terry is back. And angrier than ever. It’s been three days now, he’s never gone for more than a few unless he’s back in the slammer. 

But he couldn’t do it. Whatever, alien-lookin’ ginger’s gotten under his skin. What the fuck’s he s’posed to do? 

So he grabbed a pint, a sling-shot, and a sheet. ‘Cause he sure in the fuck ain’t sleeping in that suffocation bag again. 

Clink, off the empty pint they shared. At least his fuckin’ head stopped spinning. Reloading the slingshot with the never-ending supply of rocks and casings on the floor.

“Gonna get busted one of these nights,” reminding him with a grumble over his shoulder. 

“Oh well. Fi will have custody soon enough.”

“Think so?”

“Hope so.”

“How come you ain’t gone after your real dad yet? He’s gotta be a step up from Frank.”

Mickey can practically hear his shrug, shoulders wound all the way up to his damn ears as he sighs, spreading his hand down the length of the sleeping bag again. Like the first hundred times didn’t smooth out all the fuckin’ wrinkles, “siblings,” the one word answer that Mickey already knew anyway. Damn Gallaghers, “would you? You know, if Terry wasn’t your dad, would you track down your real one?”

“Fuck that. Ain’t no way Terry’s not my dad.”

He doesn’t even have to look at him anymore to know what kind of expression he’s wearing on his face. He’s wearing the one right now where he thinks Mickey is the dumbest piece of ass he’s ever been in, too bad it’ll never get old messing with him, “it’s called a hypothetical question Mick.”

“Yah? No shit professor Gallagher. What’s next? I got no imagination, huh?”

“No, that’s not…” 

Frustration’s sexy as hell on that idiot face. Sexy enough that he turns his head to look over his shoulder at him. His big dopey eyes land on Mickey’s and he can’t help but cock his head, “c’mere dipshit.”

‘Course he does. It’s only like a two foot gap to begin with. Fuck, sometimes Mickey should make him work harder for it. But those lips crash into his with all the eagerness of a starving animal. And Mickey kinda likes it. But he’d never say that out loud. Why the hell he waited so long to kiss the dope is beyond him now as his hand slides through the short hair on the back of his head, drawing his mouth deeper. 

He pulls back and Mickey nearly decks him. What the fuck? His dick was just starting to get interested in this shit, and now he’s going to back up? Leaning against the disintegrating drywall, smug smile on his damn face while he rummages around in that stupid pack of his. Mickey’s become certain in the last couple days that he’s got every one of his belongings crammed in that pack. Must be sneaking in and out of the Gallagher house when Fi’s not home. Dumbass. He’ll get caught eventually. He ain’t that slick.

Mickey’s brows shoot up to the middle of his forehead, it only hurts a little, not enough to surprise himself with it anymore. Fuck, “the fuck Gallagher?”

“Grabbed it the other day while you were still passed out. Thought about it,” he shrugs, that smugness is staying on his face but a tiny bit of a pink blush is calling his confidence bluff. Shithead’s gotten all sorts of cocky since he got Mickey’s birthday right with the Snickers and the fucking. And sure, fucking Ian made him feel a whole hell of a lot better about having that whore’s pussy rubbin’ on him earlier that day, “I know exactly what’s in it for me.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” he won’t deny it, now he’s curious. Where’d this mind change come from? He had no desire the other morning to even entertain the idea. Like Mickey was fuckin’ nuts for thinking he’d do that for him. Sure, it was fuckin’ embarrassing to get shot down that definitively. Good thing Mickey’s used to being treated like his shit don’t matter, or like his fuckin’ feelings don’t matter. Fuckever. 

“You.”

“Me? I’m in it for you?”

“Yep,” Christ, that smile can get bigger, “now come the fuck over here with that sexy ass. I’ll show you what’s in it for you.”

“Sexy?” he can feel his face full of fuck-you-talkin’-about, but it’s not deterring that smile on the dope’s face.

“Yeah,” just to make his point, he reaches in his bag for a brand spankin’ new bottle of lube. He sets it down with a very firm note of this-argument-is-over and his eyebrow rises. Immediately knocking down his own wall of finality with an, “oh and,” removing a towel from his pack, spreading it out delicately on the sleeping bag like it’s a fuckin’ satin bed sheet.

“A towel?”

“Yeah. I mean, I could probably find a tarp in the dumpster if you’d prefer but…” patting his hand beside him like he’s calling for a damn dog to come sit down next to him, “come on. While we still have enough daylight. I wanna watch you, unless you can find a floodlight then…” patting the bed again. 

“Watch me?”

“Fuck yes. Come on Mick.”

Jesus Christ, he’s on the verge of sounding pathetic. For what? To watch himself shove a few beads in Mickey’s ass? Or watch Mickey’s ass taking a few beads? Or watch - you, what? “you wanna watch my fuckin’ face?”

“Uh yeah,” that look again, like Mickey is a fuckin’ idiot.

“Uh no.”

“Yeah,” his fingers slide over the rosary, taking his sweet time with the first bead. 

Is that s’posed to be sexy? “no.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“‘Cause that’s fuckin’ weird. We don’t… we ain’t like… what? Like face-to-face kind of guys. That’s queer man.”

“News flash Mick. I’m queer. And you’ve been balls deep in my ass. And I’ve been balls deep in your ass. Pretty sure that makes you queer by default if not by nature.”

“Fuck you.”

“No. I’m fucking you tonight. I’m not just fucking you, I’m going to shove every Ben-Wa bead up your ass and I’m going to pull them out so fucking slow you’ll be crying with pleasure by the time I’m done. Then I’m going to fuck you. Face-to-fucking-face. Fucking eyes open and everything. Unless,” bringing the beads up in the space between them, letting them swing back and forth like he’s trying to entice a cat or some shit, “unless you’re scared…”

“Fuck you, I ain’t scared,” lunging quickly for the beads to knock them out of the way on his path to Ian’s lips. Since when did he get so fucking excited by something so fuckin’ girly and stupid like kisses? And since when does talking about fucking face-to-face make him tingly? Did that pistol whipping knock a few screws loose or something? 

Fuck it. If Terry does come home tomorrow it’s probably the last night of Mickey’s life anyway. Might as well do it right.

————

He’s used them before. It ain’t like they were just rolled into a pair of socks in his sock drawer for fuckin’ looks or somethin’. But fuck. This is different. This is fucking, “fuck,” through clenched teeth as Ian’s slippery fingers steer a third bead past the threshold. 

And it doesn’t help that he can hear Ian breathing. All whisper soft, but nearly panting, like he can’t catch his fucking breath just from watching this shit. 

At least Mickey got his way about not being face-to-face. For now anyway. That idiot’s got one arm looped under his pelvis and his face half buried in the uninjured asscheek, he keeps rubbing his lips against it like he’s wiping drool off or somethin’ but it’s kinda sexy every time his breath travels the surface of Mickey’s overheated flesh. And he can’t help it every time he rocks back into Ian’s hand. All needy and shit, but all it does is spur the idiot on. 

He’s just kind of rubbing with bead four. Little circles, barely pressing it in then pulling back out. And holy fuck, Mickey’s dick is leaking like that fuckin’ bathroom faucet and it’s so fucking close if Ian just touched it, it’d be round one over and won by that damn ginger. But he’s not paying a damn bit of attention to it, so it’s just sort of hanging there. Fine, Mickey’ll take care of it. Rubbing towards Ian’s arm, the part of it that’s more there for leverage on the angle of his ass, but if he rubs at the right intervals, if the dope keeps the same steady pace for a minute. 

Fuck, there it is. Bead four and, “fuck,” he hisses into the sleeping bag balled up in his fists as his entire fucking body spasms and he turns into a puddle of mush with Ian’s arm pinned under him. 

Fucker, he laughs against Mickey’s buttcheek. It’s all breathy and strained like he just jizzed himself too, “holy fuck Mick,” slippery, long, delicate fingers with a stupidly strong grip clamping down on Mickey’s hips and flipping him over like he’s no more than a fuckin’ rag doll in his grasp. Leaning over him, lowering himself until he’s flesh to flesh. Sure thing, tough guy did cum all over himself too and now it’s rubbing into Mickey’s and holy fuck, how did Mickey get this fucking queer this fucking quickly?

And how does he just not care at all? ‘Cause he’s dead as soon as Terry comes back anyway? Or ‘cause he’s sick of fuckin’ hiding? Even a damn sex professional can’t get him hard for her, so yeah he’s fuckin’ queer and all Terry’s attempt at fixing him did was make him accept that fact instead. Fuckever. Doesn’t matter anymore, ‘cause Ian’s lips are on his and he’s fucking around with a fifth bead and Mickey is seeing nothing more than that gorgeous C-4 in his closed eyelids and the boner-inducing explosion is happening as the fifth bead is being rubbed around his rim and Ian’s stupid fingers are being so weirdly gentle for a guy who was going to fuck him face-to-fucking-face this sure as fuck doesn’t feel like fucking. It feels like something a whole lot more than that. But it’s not like Mickey’ll ever admit that. Like ever. 

Looks like round one is a draw and round two is starting without intermission. And that’s fucking fine because Ian’s lips feel fucking good, and the way he’s rocking his erection against Mickey’s feels fucking good and, “fuck,” bead five feels fucking fantastic, and it makes his body flush from head to fucking toe and when Ian slides his hand under the back of his head that stupid fucking moan/gasp/cry thing happens in his throat and coats the inside of Ian’s mouth as his other hand decides to let the rosary rest for a minute to attend to something more pressing at the moment. Which apparently is more lube. 

Mickey’s head is getting all foggy but somehow insanely fucking crisp at the same time. Like he can hear every single noise that’s happening within the entire grouping of abandoned buildings and holy fuck he’s glad no bums are camped out here. And he’s glad his brothers were both settled in playing video games and smoking pot when he left. And he’s glad Mandy is at that group home with Lip… no he’s not glad about that. Not a single part of him is glad about that ‘cause his dumb bitch of a sister is going to get her stupid slutty heart broken by that prick and Mickey can only warn her so many times before it just becomes her own stupid stubbornness winning over her minuscule amount of practicality left in her teen girl brain. 

Why the fuck’s he thinking about that shit right now anyway? Oh, ‘cause no one will come back here looking for him and find him with half a rosary up his ass and a ginger idiot perched over top of him licking his bottom lip and grinding his dick against his and where’d his other hand go? Thought that lube was for bead six, but he’s taking his damn sweet time apparently. 

Blood is starting to rush in his ears and he can’t feel anything beyond Ian’s long fuckin’ dick rubbing against his. His poor dick looks like a fuckin’ midget next to Ian’s. Fuckever, same girth, he just ain’t gonna stab Ian in the fuckin’ pancreas or spleen or whatever the fuck is so far in there he’d never reach. Oh well, idiot seemed to enjoy himself the other night even though he made that fuckin’ face when he thought Mickey wasn’t lookin’. When he got up to piss, like his ass was on fuckin’ fire. 

Dipshit.

Seriously, where’s that fuckin’ hand? Mickey’s about two seconds away from shoving bead six up his ass himself when Ian starts shifting. Perfect. Taking a deep breath when his lips leave Mickey’s, this stupid foam mat is starting to feel pretty fucking comfortable and he could fall asleep with this overly tender stimulation. Would it be super gay to get a butt plug? Yes. Yes it would be. 

What the fuck’s Ian doing? Maybe he’s passing out. Giving up on the rest of the rosary. Too many fuckin’ Hail Marys in that thing anyway. Fuck that, like Mickey’s ever prayed. Mom used to make them go to church every Sunday but he’s pretty sure it was just a way to avoid Dad. Didn’t have a thing to do with livin’ all pious and shit.

Fuck, maybe round one wasn’t a draw. Maybe that ginger fuckhead did win and Mickey’s about to pass the fuck out with a re-hardened dick and five beads in his ass. Damn, they’ve still got the outs to go. That could wait ’til morning. Or just a quick rest anyway. Probably ain’t s’posed to just leave ‘em in there. Get all full of bacteria, get all infected or some shit, end up a the free clinic explainin’ this to a doctor? Fuck that. He sighs, forcing his eyes open in the dying light of a mid-August night, “fuck Ian,” at just the right time to watch that idiot sit down on Mickey’s cock, “coulda let me do that,” grumbling at him. 

His eyes are plastered shut as he fully seats himself and Mickey feels himself getting all rigid while he watches his expression for any signs of discomfort. Nothing. Fuck, how’s he look all pale and alien and still so fuckin’ beautiful? 

“Now you know how it feels when you won’t let me touch you,” he half-whispers, eyes opening, staring down at Mickey in the grey light of evening. Jesus Christ, he gonna sprout angel’s wings next? Certainly looks like it. Is Mickey high? No. He’s barely even buzzed from the whiskey. Is it a whiskey buzz at all anymore?

No. No, it’s not. It’s an overstimulated, overwhelmed buzz of Ian’s presence when he starts rocking all slow, hands planted firmly on Mickey’s chest. Stupid fucker with his stupid eye contact. It’s way too fucking intense.

Gripping his arms and giving a good dirty yank to pull him into his body. Both hands on the sides of his face to steer lips to lips. He feels himself start rocking instinctively into Ian, his hand sliding down his back, feeling the length of his spine and landing on the cleft of his ass. Pressing gently against their connection, Ian gasps into Mickey’s mouth and all of a sudden he gets it. He gets why Ian always has that fuckin’ smug look on his face. Like he’s the only one who’s ever made Mickey feel the intense amount of pleasure he feels when they’re together. ‘Cause he is. And now Mickey is. Mickey is the only guy Ian’s done this with. And he’s the only guy who’s ever made that sound come out of his mouth. He is absolutely fucking certain of that. And he’s absolutely certain that’s the sexiest gasp he’ll ever hear in his life. And he’s going to hear it again. 

He’s going to hear it again as the fingers of his right hand find and grasp that rock-hard cock between them. But damn it, now the fucker is twisting to grasp at the rosary again, slowly, so fucking slowly with the tug of bead five. 

“Oh fuck,” so fucking slowly, just barely pulling, just a tiny bit of pressure on Mickey’s asshole, and the others shifting and rubbing along the inside. Now he’s getting his damn way again, and he’s getting that stupid sound to come out of Mickey’s mouth. Getting lost inside Ian’s mouth and mingling with the sound of his own creation. Like he can’t fuckin’ shut up now either, like he’s got beads in Mickey’s ass and complete control over Mickey’s cock and for some fucking reason Mickey doesn’t feel at all exposed even though he should. Right? He should. 

But he doesn’t, “Jesus fuck Ian,” against his lips as he removes bead five only to start rubbing it around the rim again as Mickey’s hips buck up, forcing Ian to lean his weight up on his knees. So now he’s got his damn eye contact again. And there’s no fucking avoiding it. ‘Cause he can’t lean down on him and control that damn bead like that at the same time. He’s got that stupid fucking dopey tender smile on his face as he slides bead five back in and Mickey chokes on his own breath and his head falls back while his pelvis jerks up towards Ian again. And Ian fuckin’ gasps as his lids roll shut and Mickey thinks for a second he’s going to lose his balance but he’s still hanging onto his cock with one hand and rubbing their connection point with the other. And holy fuck if he had four hands right now, how fuckin’ sweet would that be? He could rub, and he could hold onto Ian’s hips to not only steady him but have complete control of his motion.

Jesus Christ. He’s just stepped so far into rainbow territory there’s no fucking turning back now. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again... I know, I had Ian pray the rosary in Hunk Of Woman. But we were subjected to the Gay Jesus bullshit for entirely too long, I'd rather see him worship at the alter of Mikhailo. 
> 
> So what's in it for me?...
> 
> Moral of the story is - don't be a selfish bitch when your partner asks you to pleasure them.


	10. What's In It For Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well Ian, what's in it for you?

What’s In It For Me?

 

“Holy fuck,” he can’t hold himself up anymore. Not a chance. Falling against Mickey’s sweaty chest with a grunt.

Mickey hasn’t said a word. Not even a gritted out ‘fuck’ in about three minutes. He’s gone. He’s so far fucking gone and Ian could see it in his eyes before they rolled shut and he let out the most incredible moan Ian has ever heard in his life. It was that moan that shot Ian’s last load. 

Probably should have brought about ten towels for the amount of lube and cum that’s all over both of them. Probably should have done this in a house. With a shower. Mickey’s so fucking useless right now there’s no way he’d make his way through a shower.

If Ian couldn’t hear him breathing he’d think he was dead. Before he can come back to real life and shove Ian off, he backs away, dragging the towel out from under his ass and mopping up Mickey’s stomach first. A lazy FUCK hand swats him away with a half-hearted grunt. But there’s not near enough malice behind it to be believable. 

Ian snickers, finishing the task at hand. If anyone told him a week ago that this is where he’d be… fuck it, he takes the opportunity while Mickey is half passed out to lean down and kiss his forehead.

“Fuck off Gallagher.”

“Okay Mick.” 

But since it is a public space, he does yank his boxers up his not-at-all-helpful body before he settles in next to him. Making certain not to touch him, or only as much as he’ll allow until he’s asleep. Once he’s asleep he’ll let that magnet pull him right in, once he’s so asleep that he won’t even feel Ian’s arm sliding under his head, or his knee jamming itself between Mickey’s. 

Better happen soon, Ian is fucking exhausted. But he wants to be nostril deep in Mickey’s neck as he drifts off. Lazy bastard is still laying flat on his back. Eyes closed, body looks like an overcooked noodle. Half on the mat, half on the bare ground. Glazed with sweat, hair damp. He can’t stop himself, reaching out to slide the slicked to his forehead, smooth as silk, inky black hair away from his face. 

That does it. Snaps him back to life. Mumbling some grumpy protest that’s untranslatable as he rolls to his shoulder. Rolling all the way off the mat. Now Ian has the perfect excuse to just slide both arms around him. Dragging him back over. Jesus, he’s heavy when he’s mostly dead. Grumbling all the while and throwing a half-assed elbow into Ian’s ribs as his last spark of energy dissipates. He’s like a balloon deflating against Ian’s chest, starting out with plenty of resistance until it just hits the ground and sinks right down. 

‘What’s in it for me?’ 

This. Right here. 

He stuffs his nose in tight against Mickey’s neck until he can feel the cartilage crackling before he draws back just a tad. Rubbing lazily as he gets his head comfortable behind Mickey.

“Snortin’ a fuckin’ line? Fuck,” it’s barely audible and half muffled against Ian’s wrist. Ian’s wrist that is being brought towards Mickey’s face. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was going to bite off a fingertip or something, after being that vulnerable he’ll have to prove he’s tough. 

Maybe not, his lips meet Ian’s wrist. In exactly a gently forceful way Ian would expect from Mickey. If Ian were ever to expect something like kissing his wrist. 

He feels himself smile, letting out a huff of air against Mickey’s neck that sends a shockwave down his spine and a visible shudder through his body. For a guy who’ll probably never admit to being gay, that was pretty fucking gay. And Ian fucking loved it.

————

He’s startled awake when Mickey is. Jerking out of his loose grasp, sitting quickly with a, “what the fuck Iggy?”

Shit. Blinking a Milkovich brother into focus. Fully expecting a gun barrel in the face, a cigarette pinched between his lips and a condescending glare before being handed an ass beating. 

Instead, “that’s pretty fuckin’ queer Mick,” arms crossed over his chest as he takes a step back and appraises the situation, “you a fag?”

“No,” he hasn’t bothered getting to his feet. The threat level of this brother must be pretty low, “I don’t know,” arms resting loosely around his bent knees, staying firmly planted between Ian and his brother, “maybe,” he shrugs.

Holy fuck, Ian’s breath catches in his throat at the sound of Mickey’s half admission.

“Fuck’s it matter?” the edge creeping back into his voice. Shoulders squaring off. Knuckles cracking. Of course.

Iggy shrugs, “it don’t. I guess. Dad’s dead.”

Silence. Ian’s stomach clamps in anticipation of Mickey’s response. If he could see his face he’d already know how he felt. After what feels like a lifetime a heavy sigh parts his lips, fingers rising to grind into his lids, “Mandy know yet?”

“No.”

“Good. Fuck,” frustration rising, “fuck. Where’s she gonna go?”

“Aunt Rande?”

“Fuck her. Fuck,” those fingers haven’t stopped and it’s starting to make Ian feel queasy, “how’d he die?”

Iggy shrugs like Mickey can see it. 

“Fuck. Ain’t got shit for supplies. Ain’t got shit for money. Fuck,” his hands finally drop and he gets to his feet. All full of tension and anger, the two things that are always lurking right beneath his surface, yanking his clothes on. 

Ian doesn’t move. Partially hoping he’s become invisible. It’s only a matter of time before his face gives him away, calls his bluff about one particular detail he’s left out. Fuck, when Mickey’s eyes land on his, as brief as the contact flits across his face, he sees it clear as day. The burden that’s just been left squarely on Mickey’s shoulders. He’ll try like hell to keep his family together. To keep Mandy out of the system and a roof over their heads. 

And he’ll probably fail. A minimum wage part-time job at a corner store. The only other way of life he knows is illegal. And if a cop notified them of Terry’s death, it’s only a matter of time before DCFS starts sniffing around. Only a matter of time before they take Mandy away. 

Shit. It’s not Ian’s fault that Terry is dead. But fuck, he sure feels that way when a wave of pain rolls so heavy off Mickey’s shoulders that it knocks the wind out of Ian’s lungs. And now he won’t look his way again. Or say anything. 

Fuck. Mickey doesn’t have a Fiona to keep them together. Mickey doesn’t have anything, anything resembling help. And even if he had a place to turn, it’s not like he’d accept help, or god forbid ask for it. 

He bites back his name on his tongue as he watches him descend the stairs. He blinks back tears as his headful of dirty black hair disappears from sight. Feeling so strangely and definitively final. 

He sees his own hand out of the corner of his eye, reaching for that sweatshirt - Ian’s sweatshirt, the one that Mickey’s head was resting on all night. Taking a hold of it and bringing it to his face, inhaling the deeply human scent that he wants to spend the rest of his life sleeping against. But it suddenly seems so unattainable. Like a distant dream in the far reaches of his memories, fading into nothing as the morning turns into day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, even in the path of least resistance there will be resistance. If for no other reason than I get bored out of my mind writing without obstacles. And reading without obstacles, what's the point?


	11. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you at least look at me?

Failure

 

“Would you at least look at me?” his voice sounds like it’s a million miles away, not right there in the open window frame.

Stance, aim, trigger press. Stuffing flies. 

They took her. Led her out of the fuckin’ house like she was a criminal. Claiming they’d have placement. It wouldn’t be some girls’ home for the next two years that’s basically no better than juvie. 

Only a matter of time before the bank takes the house.

Suddenly shooting her stuffed bear isn’t enough. Suddenly he needs to feel it under his hands. He needs to feel it as his fingers rip the seams and tug the stuffing out. He needs to feel himself destroy the one thing he gave her that she kept all these fuckin’ years. Ain’t like she’ll need it in her group home, ain’t like she’ll come back for it when she ages out. And then what? Won’t have a home to come back to. Won’t have a mother or a father or brothers to keep her off the street. Won’t be going to college. What’s she gonna do? Take up with some piece of shit guy who’ll just knock her up and marry her ‘cause the only other option for a girl like Mandy is to sell her body. Or work some shit minimum wage job and never be able to afford a roof over her head, live in a fuckin’ car and end up freezing to death with the bums under the L in the frigid Chicago winter. Ain’t like she’d be safe in some homeless shelter. 

“Fuck,” the stuffing is lying around his feet like the stupid snow that’s lingering on the horizon. Winter is nearly here and they won’t have a roof over their heads, “fuck,” his fingers rise to his lids, rubbing until he sees spots. Rubbing until the tears are forced back down where they belong. Men don’t cry. Real men don’t cry.

“Mick,” fuck. Gallagher. Still sittin’ there. Like he’ll wait all fuckin’ day just for a split second of eye contact. Like he’ll sit out here all fuckin’ night and watch Mickey destroy every single piece of this building that is destructible because if he doesn’t, then he’ll just destroy himself instead. And he wants to. He wants to force the pain to become physical. To make is visible. Make it something real. Something with a timeframe. A bruise will fade. A cut will heal.

But failing his sister. Failing her so many fucking times. That shit’ll never heal. That shit’ll never be forgiven. 

Heels of his hands rubbing into his eyes now. So fucking vigorously he’s gone blind and still he keeps at it. His breath comes out choked and breathy when he means for it to be an order, “you need to get the fuck away from me Gallagher. You know it as well as I do.”

“Know what?” 

Fuck he’s glad he can’t see him through the spots and black swirls twisting into ugly ghosts across his irises, “I’m fucked for life. Ain’t a thing I can do about it. You’re not. Not if you stay the fuck away from me.”

“Fuck you,” he interrupts him. Mickey can feel him coming closer and he wants to swing. He’s going to swing. Even blind and spotted and shaking with hunger and fear and disappointment and pure fucking failure. Just like Terry always told him. 

You’re a failure. You’re useless. You’re worthless. You always will be.

And now he’s such a fuckin’ failure that his own dad left because of him. Fuckin’ died because of him. Because he’s a fuckin’ faggot.

“He was fuckin’ right,” dodging Ian’s hand as it extends towards Mickey’s arm, “and you need to stay the fuck out of it. And stay the fuck away from me.”

“No,” his jaw is set in that annoying stubborn way and his eyes are burning bright flames, lighting up the blood in Mickey’s veins, burning through his entire fucking system, “I’m not going to. I’m not going to stay away from you,” now his stupid voice shakes and his eyes fill but they don’t drop away from Mickey’s.

Stupid stubborn fuck, “you don’t fucking get it Gallagher,” dodging his hand that’s reaching out again. Like a fucking hand is going to do it. Like holding onto his arm is going to keep him afloat. Mickey needs the fucking coast guard and Ian’s giving him his hand. His fucking hand. 

His fucking stupid fucking hand and now Mickey is walking towards it. Walking towards Ian. Walking into his chest. Fuck him. And fuck his warmth. And fuck his chest being the most comfortable place Mickey has ever been in his life. Fuck his stupid long arms for wrapping around Mickey and his hands for landing on his shoulder blades and staying there. And fuck his voice and his stupid fucking ability to read Mickey’s stupid mind, “it’s not your fault Mick. Not a single part of it.”

And fuck him for being the only fucking person in Mickey’s life that has ever held him. Truly held him. Like he can’t grip him tight enough and he never wants to fucking let go.


	12. Empty Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homeless

Empty Building

 

“The fuck you want this time Gallagher?”

“Not Gallagher,” she responds. Wrapping her jacket tighter around her thin frame as the winter wind whips a frozen trail through the empty buildings where her brother has been staying since the bank took the house. 

His eyes pass over hers to land on Ian’s anyway, narrowing with that warning of ‘I told you to mind your own fucking business’.

“It was my idea Mick,” she tells him before Ian can crumble to nothingness under the blaze of his glare, “I knew if anyone knew where you were, it’d be him.”

“Fuck him,” he grumbles. Scanning his sister over with worry-creased brows.

“I’m okay Mick,” she walks towards him slowly, like she’s afraid he’ll lash out if she gets any closer.

He keeps telling Ian to fuck off, to leave him be. He’s been showing up enough to not get fired from the store, mostly not talking to Ian about anything, just reminding him to focus on his fuckin’ schoolwork and let Mickey focus on his own fucking shit. Keeping his distance as much as possible. Linda’s been forcing him to shower about once a week in order to not scare off any customers, not that Southside shitheads care if their Southside shithead security guy is greasy and smells like dirt and rotting human. 

And Ian doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how Mickey smells when he comes up here on the cold nights of winter, when he slides under the pile of musty blankets that he took from the Gallagher basement, when he wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck. He doesn’t fucking care because maybe his body heat is the only thing that’ll keep him from freezing to death and he can’t convince the fucker to just sleep at the Gallagher house so he just sleeps with him. If he won’t do it for himself, maybe he’ll do it for Ian. And if he won’t do it for Ian, well, then they’ll both die of exposure out here in the coming polar vortex. At least they’ll be together.

She sits down next to him, not close enough to touch. But she watches the side of his face until he finally looks at her. Fuck, he’s skinny. He’s not Ian’s stocky piece of Southside trash, he’s a skinny starving street rat and he’s too fucking stubborn to accept help. 

“I’m fine,” she tells him firmly. Her thin gloved fingers reach out, gripping his face to force him to retain eye contact, “I’m living with some old hag who used to be a social worker so she fosters girls close to aging out of the system who are too fucked in the head to be adopted by some nice prissy Northside couple. And apparently aborting your father’s baby is enough fucked up to be on her radar, so,” she shrugs and that timidness that’s risen in her in the last few years is clear as day. 

He can see Mickey’s posture strengthening as hers wilts. Like he can force some of his strength out of his own body and into hers. His fingers that are red with cold are reaching out to touch her face now, wiping a lone tear off her pale cheek. Her hands grasp his and she smiles gently, “I’m okay Mick. But I won’t be okay if you die. So listen to him,” tilting her head towards where Ian is still standing at the top of the steps, “please.”

“Fuck him,” he grumbles.

“What you do with him when you get to his house is between the two of you,” she winks, a smirk rising that’s so similar, yet so different, to the one Ian misses seeing so fucking much on Mickey’s face. Fading when Mickey doesn’t return a snarky comment, “I’m fine Mickey,” she repeats, “I’m glad he’s dead. Yeah it’s weird as fuck to be in a house full of fuckin’ girls, but they aren’t all bad. And the old lady smells like mothballs and she makes me use table manners and shit like that,” she taps her nose where her ring used to be and shrugs, “but the house is warm, we get to school on time, we have home cooked meals, no one hits us or stumbles into our rooms at night. There are four of us, so it’s not really that different from home,” she smiles gently, “aside from the whole gender thing, but girls aren’t the worst thing that can happen,” she shrugs, “I guess,” her face keeps getting closer to Mickey’s as she’s talking, “I miss the fuck out of you dumbasses. But you can visit. Any time,” she doesn’t stop leaning until they’re forehead to forehead and her hands are slipping through his dirty hair, “please take care of yourself. It’s not your fault Terry’s dead and even if it was then all I’d have to say to you is thank you. You couldn’t have stopped any of the shit he did to us. To me,” her breath shakes and Ian is starting to wonder if he should try to slip away quietly and let them have this private moment in absolute privacy. But if they’ve both forgotten he’s here, then moving would only remind them.

She takes a deep breath that shakes just slightly, the bad news is coming up first, “Colin got busted. He’ll do time this time,” keeping a tight hold on the back of his head to keep him close to her face, “but Iggy found a place to stay. Some rich girl he’s been banging, sounds like it’s mostly to piss her dad off, but she’s got her own apartment and she likes Iggy’s drug connections, so he’s got it pretty well made right now. We’re all okay Mickey. Colin’s behind bars but he’d be there eventually even if Dad was still alive. He’s got a roof over his head and food in his belly. Iggy’s just Iggy and he always will be. I am in the best place I could possibly be. That is, if you’ll come hang out with me sometimes,” she adds almost sheepishly.

When Mickey’s gasp exits his mouth and his sunken cheeks sort of puff out with a choked cry she guides his face into her shoulder. The shoulder where Ian can’t see his face. But he can see his hand. FUCK grasping white-knuckled to the sleeve of his sister’s coat.

————

It took some convincing to get Fiona to agree to letting Mickey stay. It was the stretch of subzero weather with frost-bitingly cold wind-chills for the ten days straight of forecast that finally put her over. That, and in the last two weeks Ian has dressed the basement up. Made it a bedroom. Not the nicest bedroom ever, but there’s a mattress, a dresser, a lamp, and his posters from upstairs lined up nice and neatly on the wall. It’s enough. And once he has Mickey in his arms, it doesn’t fucking matter if it’s a ratty old twin mattress on bare cement or a king’s suite in a posh hotel. 

Leaning into his hair, still wet from the shower. He didn’t eat much for dinner, not as much as Ian was hoping. But if he’s been mostly starving for a few months now, it’s probably best that he not overdue it right away on Fi’s lasagne, or Stouffer’s lasagne, whoever it is.

“I did tell Fi you’d work out some kind of rent agreement. We all just contribute a certain amount to the squirrel fund every paycheck. So it’s not like she’ll expect something exorbitant…”

“Exorbitant,” he snorts at him, sounding tired as fuck. Sure, Ian was hoping they’d fuck. But Mickey’s exhausted and chilled down to the bone and his organs are probably barely functioning, so Ian will wait, “really think I’d freeload at the Gallagher palace?”

“Palace,” now it’s his turn to snort, “and no. I didn’t think you’d freeload, just thought…”

Little fucker is so fucking quick. Turning in Ian’s grasp and gaining the upper hand immediately to force Ian to his back while Mickey lays over him with his hands pinned on the pillow. His face so close, so fucking close all Ian wants to do it kiss him, “thought what tough guy?” 

His eyebrow darts up and fuck it, lifting his head to meet his lips. That’s all it’s going to take, just the heat of Mickey’s lips and the gentle exploration of his tongue, that’s all it’s going to take as he settles himself comfortably on top of Ian. Releasing his hands, they immediately find the back of his head to drag him as close as possible. The other dropping to his lower back, pressing until there’s no space for air between their bellies. He absolutely hates how many of his vertebrae he can feel prominently now, he hates how sharp his pelvic bones feel digging into his abdomen. That’ll change, he reminds himself, you can be loud and brash and annoying and rude in the Gallagher house but you’re not allowed to be hungry. Fi spent enough of her childhood hungry and scraping together whatever she could get her hands on for her growing brothers, there’s no way in hell she’ll let anyone under her guardianship go without a meal now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm mostly just skimming the surface of the rest of this storyline. Little time jumps between each chapter.


	13. Bribery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey helping Ian study.

Bribery

 

He leans over, sticking his nose in the side of Mickey’s neck, pressing lips against his flesh.

“Fuckin’ focus,” snapping the back of Ian’s neck with a pencil, “you ain’t gettin’ into West Point with your shit grades Gallagher.”

“It’s too hard to focus Mick,” whining at him, “hard,” repeating as he takes Mickey’s hand and steers it to his dick.

“Not that hard,” face turning to arch a brow at him, “you want this or not?” tapping the pencil on the notebook. Lord only knows where he stole the desk from, but it’s not a bad thing to have in their little basement bungalow. 

“Yes,” stuffing his face into Mickey’s neck again, “I want this,” hand sliding across his stomach, under the hem of his shirt.

“This,” swatting his hand away, palm meeting Ian’s forehead and pushing him back just far enough that they’re face to face, nearly nose to nose, “you want West Point? You gotta work for it fucker. Besides, it ain’t that hard. Fuckin’ physics, it’s just math with pictures attached.”

Huffy sigh, arms crossing over his chest, “if it’s not that hard, why the fuck aren’t you in school yet?”

Rolling his gorgeous eyes and sucking his cheeks in for a moment as he pulls and envelope out of the desk drawer. Unfolding the paper and handing it over. 

“Jesus fuck Mick. When did you even have time to do this?”

He shrugs, “don’t take much time to take a fuckin’ test.”

“Study?”

“Who the fuck studies for a GED?”

“Uh, people who take the GED.”

“Fuck them.”

“Of course,” inspecting the paper, choking on his own breath, feeling his eyes bulge, “you scored a 194! Without studying? You know what that means?”

“Yah. It means I don’t gotta go back to school ever.”

“No,” folding the paper back up, “means you could get credited at certain colleges depending on what program you enter, just by this score. Means you could…”

“Fuck off Gallagher. I ain’t even settin’ foot in a classroom.”

“How the fuck did you pass the English portion?”

“Fuck off. You remember old Ms Bodnar?”

“The old lady who’s backyard butted up against yours?”

“Old bitch was barely understandable past her accent, but when we were kids she’d sit outside with my mom and swat our butts with her cane if we displayed poor speaking abilities,” a half-smile rises, “old bitch. Used to say it proved our raising,” his finger rises between them, shaking in the air like a little old lady would do, “you can be poor white trash Mikhailo but you don’t have to sound like poor white trash,” he mimics a crusty old lady voice before his eye contact falters and he clears his throat, “fuckever. She’s dead now too.”

All Ian can think to do it kiss his forehead, so he does. And he gets a shove to his chest for the effort, “what are you going to do with this?” tapping him on the head with the folded up paper.

“Next time I need to light a fire…”

“You’re a stubborn fuck.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t all got dreams of fuckin’ officer’s school or college or fuckever. So,” flicking Ian’s ear with a grin, “fuckin’ focus already. ‘Less you’re just gonna go enlist.”

“I can’t focus when I can smell you and I can feel your body heat,” his hands that are completely uncontrollable find Mickey’s body again.

Only to get shoved off with a smirk, “well here’s the deal tough guy, you wanna get laid you gotta get your schoolwork done first.”

“Bribing me?”

“Rewarding you dipshit. There’s a difference,” he shifts his body off the chair he was perched on next to Ian. Stretching when he stands, Ian’s eyes rake over his body. His fucking gorgeous body that’s got weight back on it now and he looks like Ian’s Mickey. The stocky piece of trash that he is, and Ian fucking loves him for it. FUCK pulling the dresser drawer open and tossing the rosary on the bed.

“Fuck, Mick,” he groans.

“That’s exactly what you’re gonna do firecrotch. After your damn schoolwork is done,” stepping back over to tap the notebook on the desk with brows up to his hairline, “so hurry the fuck up before I change my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I can tell a GED is scored out of 200 for overall score. Maybe I give Mickey a little more intellectual abilities than the show did - but I honestly do think he is the more intelligent of the show's characters and if he was given the luxury of worrying about school instead of survival he probably would do well.


	14. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where will they all end up when Ian graduates?

The Future

 

“Jesus, fuck,” he startles out of the chair and slams the family laptop shut when Ian’s bag lands on the bed.

“Watching porn without me?” he smirks, leaning in to plant on a kiss on Mickey’s forehead.

Hand on his chest, trying to keep his thudding heart inside his ribcage where it belongs. What a dumb fuck. It’s not like Ian asked him yet. It’s not like they’ve talked about it yet. It’s not like when he leaves in July for West Point he’ll actually want Mickey with him. If he did, he’d have said something by now. His acceptance came about a month ago. That’s plenty of time to bring it up.

“Fuck, you just fuckin’ startled me man,” blame it on the remnants of a childhood spent dodging fists. And divert the attention, taking a fistful of desert cammies and dragging him to his level. Lips searing lips. 

And it works. It always works.

————

Damn nose smashed up against the back of Mick’s neck when he sighs, “you know what?”

And he’s going to fucking wait for Mickey to respond, “no firecrotch I don’t know. What?”

Breathy chuckle that makes Mickey’s spine tingle, “West Point’s four years. Four years is a long time…”

Breath catching in his throat. What a fuckin’ idiot. Pretending this was going to last, “don’t man. It’s…”

“Don’t what?” leaning out to shove his shoulder, back flat against the bed as he leans over him, “I can’t be married or anything while I’m at the Academy but…”

“Fuck off,” struggling out from beneath him. Like that was ever an option that was on the table.

“What? Stop,” his voice is getting all breathy and panicky as Mickey reaches for his boxers on the floor. Hand reaching out, grasping for his wrist, “let me finish a damn sentence,” yanking until he turns to look at him, “I can’t be married for any of those four years, but Mick I want you to be near. I know it’s a lot to ask, to ask you to move out there, when we can’t live together. I have to live on the premises. I won’t be able to leave for the first six weeks, I won’t have much phone time. So the first six weeks, I mean, you might as well stay in Chicago for the summer. But by the time school starts it’ll be a little more like just college. I mean, not really, but,” he shrugs and Mickey can see in his eyes as he starts truly thinking through the weight of being alone. For the first time in his life, he’ll be truly alone on the cusp of his future.

Fuck him. Reaching out to slide his fingers through his hair, “did you ever think I wasn’t going to move to New York?”

“What?” hope rising in green.

“Well yeah,” feeling a blush rising. Milkoviches don’t blush. Fuck, swallowing hard as his free hand rises to rub into his eyes, “Mandy’s got her art school acceptance, fuckever fancy place in New York. You’ve got West Point. In New York. Looks like the only two breathin’ things I give a fuck about are going to be moving to New York this summer. So…”

“It’s four years at the Academy. Then it’s five in the Army, wherever they want to send me.”

“I know.”

“Four years until I can ask you to mar…”

“Fuck off. Don’t finish that fuckin’ sentence,” his hand has freed itself from Ian’s grasp. Finger in the air between them. Poking into Ian's chest, feeling his brows having crept up to their absolute height.

“Marry me,” he blurts it out with a big dopey fuckin’ grin on his face, “marry me. Four years. Is a long time to wait, but I love you Mick.”

“Fuck difference does a piece of paper make anyway?” wondering as his fingers slide through that damn short hair that he’ll have to keep short now for at least the next nine years. Fuck that short hair. 

“In four years we’ll go down to the courthouse like a couple of queens,” that fuckin’ smile is impossibly big and it makes Mickey want to do every single damn thing that idiot says, “we’ll get a piece of paper. Then we’ll start off on a life of base housing where you can join all the wives’ clubs,” fuckin’ smile is fuckin’ irritating as fuck, “and I’ll be gone more often than not. Between training and deploying. But by then you’ll be my husband,” those fuckin’ twinkly eyes, “and it won’t matter where I get ordered to go, it’ll be you that I come home to. So no matter what, it’ll be worth it.”

“You’re a fuckin’…”

“Idiot. I know. Your fault.”

“How the fuck’s it my fault?”

“‘Cause you,” his hands find Mickey’s waist, slide over his hips and back to his asscheeks to drag him over closer, “are the only person that will ever make me feel like this,” he leans forward to start kissing on Mickey’s stomach. Fucking annoying fucker knows that’s his weakness. Feeling himself turning into putty in those big stupid hands already, “I love you Mickey.”

Damn it. He’s going to have to say it back one of these fucking days. Fuck. His stupid head tilts back and he’s watching him, waiting for it. Of course Mickey feels it, he’s felt it for so fucking long it’s almost too hard to imagine a life without it. It is too hard to imagine a life without it. And it’s always been there. Always, in the way he looks at him and touches him and the way he allows Ian to touch him. Like anyone else on this Earth would ever be allowed to touch and kiss Mickey Milkovich. Like anyone else would be given the freedom to roam his body with their hands and mouth. Like anyone else would ever get to rake over him with their eyes like that, without getting punched in the mouth. 

“Fuck. Fine. I love you too. Now you gonna suck that thing?”

“Mmhmm,” his arms wrap around Mickey’s hips and he drags him forward, wrestling him down to the bed. Leaning over him with that stupid tender look on his face that Mickey hates but he doesn’t really hate. He never has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving out to New York state, that's where.
> 
> I'm going to leave it up to you guys to speculate whether Ian's bipolar symptoms will rise at the Academy. I'll leave it up to you to speculate what Mickey will do with his life. I'll leave it up to you to decide if Mandy will make a go of art school.


	15. Freedom To Be You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I'm going to let Svetlana close this one out.

Freedom To Be You

 

Svetlana stands outside the door for a moment. Just one moment to watch through the window. Watch a private exchange through the glass. 

Carrot boy is behind counter watching pretty-eyed rainbow boy. Nothing more than talking. Nothing more than conversation. Something about it even. Something about the way they look at each other. Just in conversation. Eye contact like they can’t bear to look away from one another. 

Svetlana may have started as a well placed whore. She may have started as a snitch of a whore. But this snitch of a whore helped bring down a dirty politician and in the process a wing of a drug organization. And now this snitch of a whore is managing the office at the precinct while she works her way towards a certificate in criminology. 

Not astronaut but not whore. Is okay with Svetlana. 

When the exchange finally ends in a cocky smirk and freckled blush she pushes the door open.

“They still ain’t got your specific brand of vodka in any of those fuckin’ hipster stores?”

She shrugs, “maybe yes. Maybe no. Land of choices. I choose to buy vodka from shitty little corner store in shitty little neighborhood. Maybe so I can say good-bye to shitty little rainbow boy and shitty McDonald clown before they leave for brighter future.”

He smirks, with a cocky brow lifted as he reaches for a pint of vodka, cracking the top to take his own shot before passing it over, “nostrovia.”

“Nostrovia,” she repeats with a smile. He might be just shitty little rainbow boy with a thing for McDonald’s but he’s certainly earned that shitty little smile he wears. And Svetlana would be lying if she said she regretted her decision that day. The day that all three of them were given the freedom to be themselves, the freedom to take the power, the freedom to love. And the freedom to make choices in the land of choice. America. Freedom to be me. Freedom to be a whore with morals. Freedom to be you. Freedom to be a gay boy with an orange love and a hateful father. And maybe this is enough. Maybe this is what they’ll always be. Or maybe so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's probably the lightest ending we'll manage. 
> 
> I've got a couple one-shot style endings that are pretty much ready. I just don't know how I should post them. Do we want chapter one again in the beginning of each work so it's clear in our minds? I guess I'll post as a series, probably makes the most sense. 
> 
> There's a few that are going to get pretty heavy. Some might make some of you mad. But you should know me well enough by now to know that I'll pretty much always fix the things I break.
> 
> Kudos/comments appreciated. Share if you'd like, but you won't find me on social media :)
> 
> Any feedback for how to post would be appreciated. Feedback in general is totally fine too. And you know how I feel about hating it - print it off and wipe your ass with it/piss on it/light it on fire, whatever floats your boat.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


End file.
